Wings of Time
by thepensword
Summary: Things were bad enough when Crowley invoked a spell to force the Winchesters to face their past—literally. But now a rift has been torn in time and Lucifer is getting involved—just another day in the life of Sam and Dean. "Have fun with this one, boys!" (Or: Winchester meets Weechester. Time travel) (ON HIATUS)
1. Prologue

_**Would you believe that this is my first ever non-crossover?**_

 _ **Yeah. Well, I had this idea and thought it might be a good place to start. Please don't hate on it. Constructive criticism is fantastic, but there is a difference between "Perhaps to make it better you could try this" and "This sucks, there's so much wrong with it, and you are a fail writer". Use common sense, people.**_

 _ **Ok, I think I should probably talk about the language in this story. So in our lovely show, people curse. I mean, they're adults in rather stressful situations, come on. And Dean...well, Dean curses a lot. The 'b' word is kind of his catch phrase.**_

 _ **Problem is, I don't feel comfortable using these words, even in story format. I will try to keep this as in character as possible, but cursing will be at a bare minimum, if it's in here at all. Just so you know.**_

 ** _This story is set somewhere in season 5. I do not believe there will be spoilers past that, but something might slip. I am currently at the start of season 8 with my watching, so PLEASE don't spoil anything for me._**

 ** _Oh, and the spell I used in this is a completely arbitrary thing I spat out using Google translate._**

 ** _Without further ado, I present to you my first ever Supernatural fanfic._**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. I think that's pretty self-evident.**

* * *

Crowley wasn't pleased.

His day had been going so nicely—killed a virgin, exorcised a pro-Lucifer demon, made some pretty good deals, condemned a few souls to eternal torture in the pit—and now, as icing on the cake, he'd _liberated_ a spell book from an old witch. She wasn't using it for anything useful anyway, so he'd just gone ahead and taken it off her hands for her.

As well as her soul. He still thought that was a nice touch.

But now, just as he was getting ready to bury himself in his beautiful new book, who had shown up? Who'd found him in his warehouse and spoiled his oh-so-perfect day?

The Winchesters, of course.

Crowley really hated the Winchesters.

"Hello, boys," he said with a smile, calmly ignoring the guns pointed at his face.

Sam the Moose stepped forward with a snarl. "Did you know?" he growled, tightening his grip on his weapon. Crowley raised an eyebrow.

"Pardon?"

To his left, Dean snorted cynically. "Like you don't know _exactly_ what we're talking about."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Sorry, boys, I haven't the faintest. And you can put those guns away; you know they won't do much but irritate me." He waved his hand and the metal in their weapons heated up, forcing the Winchesters to unclasp their hands. Two satisfying clanks assured Crowley that the weapons were on the floor.

"The Colt," spat Dean. "It didn't work."

Both Crowley's eyebrows flew up at that, and he turned slowly. "Really?" he asked. Shame. Would've been such a nice fix to his Satan problem. Hm. Well, then.

"So I assume that means that Lucifer still walks?" he said mockingly. "Wonderful. I suppose that's too bad for you, then. Guess you'll just have to say 'yes' to your respective angels."

Dean lunged forward, brandishing that damn demon-killing knife. "We lost two of our friends, you jerk!" he growled, thrusting the blade under Crowley's chin. "Did you know it wouldn't work?"

"What wouldn't work?"

"The damn Colt!" yelled Dean. Behind him, Crowley could see Sam's hands curling into fists as he bent to reclaim his gun.

"Hm. No, sorry boys," said Crowley. "I honestly thought it would work. Remember, I want Lucifer gone as much as you do. So _suck it up and do what you've got to do, morons!_ " The last bit came out as an angered shout, and Dean stepped back a bit in surprise.

That gave Crowley just the window he needed. He lunged for his spell book and opened it at random. His eyes fell upon the first spell on the page and a small smile spread across his face.

"Et dimittam te, ut cruor temporis cursu ventis iam audet! Minores pedum vestigia retro redeant vestra et filii vestri non loco aut cadendum esse!"

The Winchesters stared at him with undisguised horror as the room began to fill with a blindingly white light. "What did you do?!" shouted Sam.

Crowley flashed a grin. "Have fun with this one, boys!"

And then he was gone.


	2. Flashback

_**Yes, it's short, but hopefully you like it. Shoutout to Soraa to being my first follow/favorit-er.**_

 ** _Disclaimer:_**

 ** _Me: Hit it, Crowley._**

 ** _Crowley: I don't like being used as a servant by some pathetic human filth. I am the king of hell, and I don't appreciate—_**

 ** _Me: Crowley. We've been over this. You're the best freaking bad guy in the whole show. You are my favorite character (next to Sam and sometimes Cas). You owe me this._**

 ** _Crowley: I really don't._**

 ** _Me: Plus, I'm the writer and you have no choice in the matter, so..._**

 ** _Crowley: Argh! Fine. Bianca Valdez does NOT own this stupid story. Nor does she own me, but she seems to have got it into her shallow human mind that she can control me, which she can't, by the way, because NO ONE controls the King of Hell. And—_**

 ** _Me: THANK you Crowley. Please shut up now._**

* * *

 **Then**

 _The Winchesters stared at him with undisguised horror as the room began to fill with a blindingly white light. "What did you do?!" shouted Sam._

 _Crowley flashed a grin. "Have fun with this one, boys!"_

 _And then he was gone._

 **Now**

When Sam awoke, he found himself tied to a chair.

"Wha…?" he mumbled, slowly opening his eyes. His head hurt and each blink brought afterimages of that bright, bright light. Blearily, he peered at his surroundings only to find that he was in….a motel room?

Sam closed his eyes again and shook himself. When he looked a second time, the motel room was still there.

There was nothing spectacular about it. It was, in fact, just about the same as every other motel room he'd stayed in over the last twenty-something years. Something about it seemed eerily familiar, though Sam couldn't put his finger on what made it so.

Looking down, he struggled against the ropes that tied his hands behind the chair. They were tight, and the knot was so professionally done that Sam felt oddly like he'd been the one to tie it.

"Quit struggling. There's no way you're getting out."

Sam's head snapped up and his eyes hurtled to his right. A teenage boy stood there, holding a loaded gun lazily in his crossed arms. Familiar green eyes gazed out from a face that was too serious for its age, a deep frown set in the young features.

"Who are you?" growled the boy in a low voice, but Sam couldn't stop staring.

"Dean?" he breathed.

"What?"

"Nothing, sorry. Nothing," said Sam, shaking his head. "I just…whoa."

The boy, who looked so terrifyingly like a young Dean that Sam couldn't imagine him as anyone else, raised the gun and brandished it at Sam's face. "Answer my question! Who are you, and what did you do with Sammy?"

Sam froze. Everything clicked into place. The strange spell, the white light, Crowley's parting words, the familiarity of the room, the boy who looked like Dean…

"I'm, um…" Sam scrambled frantically for a believable alias. "Ash," he finally spat out, thinking of his now-dead friend. "Ash…Smith."

Dean (for that was who the boy was, undoubtedly) raised an eyebrow. "All right, _Ash_ ," he sneered. "Now answer the second question before I blow your brains out." He moved closer and pushed the gun against Sam's head. "Where did you come from, and what did you do with my brother?"

"Whoa, wait a second," said Sam, leaning back away from the barrel of the gun. "I…uh…I don't know."

"Sure," snarled Dean, pulling the chair forward. "Try again."

"No, no really!" Sam said frantically. "Listen, kid, I didn't do anything to your brother. I promise!"

"Then where is he?!" Dean sounded near hysterical at this point. "You appeared in our room in a flash of light, and now Sammy's gone! Maybe you don't think I'll shoot you because I'm a kid, but I will! And even if I don't, you're in for a _world_ of pain when my dad gets home!"

Sam then participated in some world-class Winchester on-the-spot thinking.

"Hey, slow down," he said, and if his hands had been free he would have raised them submissively. "Look, I'm a hunter too. Whatever it was that took your brother, I was hunting it. Not sure what it was, not sure what it did, but it somehow sent me here and took Sam. I'm not here to hurt you, and I didn't steal your brother."

The barrel of the gun lowered just slightly, but Dean's expression was still guarded. "How do I know you're not lying?"

"You don't," said Sam. "Here, splash me with some holy water. I'm not a demon. You got a silver knife? We can try that too, and it won't hurt me because I'm not a monster." With a sigh, he gazed beseechingly at his brother's young self. "Promise."

Dean stared at him silently for a good minute and a half. "Yeah, ok," he said finally. "But if you're lying, and you hurt me or Sam…" he let the threat hang, glancing at Sam meaningfully.

"Great." Sam let out a sigh of relief, glad that he was no longer in danger (If young Dean shot older Sam now, what would that do for their timeline?) of getting shot in the head. Grimacing, he tugged once at his bonds. "Hey, you mind untying me?"

Green eyes regarded him coolly for another moment or so. "Fine," Dean said reluctantly. Out came a knife, and Sam was soon free.

"So what's your name?" asked Sam tentatively. Not that he didn't already know; the question was completely for Dean's benefit.

"I'm Dean."


	3. Flashforward

_**Here's a nice long one this time. I should probably mention that I have not the patience to sit here and edit these things...so this story is completely first draft. Any and all typos can and should be credited to the above fact.**_

 _ **Me: I made a deal with Crowley. I let him go in exchange for...**_

 _ **Sam: *sighs* Hello.**_

 _ **Me: Don't be so glum. Cheer up and say it for me!**_

 _ **Sam: Why?**_

 _ **Me: I'll let you play with my dog. I know you like dogs.**_

 _ **Sam: Seriously?**_

 _ **Me: Don't make me break out my puppy eyes! (And please don't use yours, because yours are terrifyingly puppyish for a grown man and I would cave immediately, but I digress.)**_

 _ **Sam: *sighs again* Must I?**_

 _ **Me: Pleeeeeease?**_

 _ **Sam: All right. Bianca Valdez does not own me, my brother, or anything else recognizable in this story. She does, however, own the writing, so she would**_ ** _very much appreciate it if no one copied her work._**

 ** _Me: That was beautiful, Sam! Thank you! I think I'll keep you._**

 ** _Sam: Oh, no..._**

* * *

 **Then**

 _The Winchesters stared at him with undisguised horror as the room began to fill with a blindingly white light. "What did you do?!" shouted Sam._

 _Crowley flashed a grin. "Have fun with this one, boys!"_

 _And then he was gone._

 **Now**

It took a split second for Dean's mind to plot out the situation. Crowley was gone, blinding light filling the room, and Sam was way too close to the center of the blast. He tried to reach out, to shove his brother out of the way, but he wasn't fast enough.

It was like there was an angel in the room, but without the sound. The air was so still and silent that Dean felt as if the world had faded into nonexistence, leaving nothing but the light. The light was everything. There was nothing else.

And then it cleared, and Dean sprang back into action.

"Sam!" he yelled, the words coming too late. "Sammy!"

There was no answer.

Panicked, Dean turned in a circle, eyes darting all around, hand tightening around the blade of the demon knife. "Crowley, you son of a b****!" he bellowed. "Bring him back!"

"Wh-who are you?"

Dean whipped around, right hand brandishing the knife. He wasn't alone, as he'd thought. In fact, someone was standing exactly where Sam had been just a moment before. Whoever it was, he was small, and judging by the pitch of the voice, young.

And Dean knew him. He knew that hair, that voice, that build. And when the hazel eyes were lifted from underneath the too-long bangs, Dean knew those too.

If Dean were less well trained, he would have dropped the knife right then and there, because standing before him was his little brother.

His little brother…at age ten.

"Sam?"

Sam stared at him for several seconds, brow furrowed in a familiar expression of confusion mixed with fear.

"How do you know my—" his words were cut off as he fell to his knees, a small moan escaping his lips. Dean rushed forward and caught him before he collapsed onto the concrete.

"Leave me alone!" Sam cried, trying to push away from the man who was, to him, still a stranger. He was weak, though, and the effort caused his eyes to roll back in his head, before he passed out completely.

Dean dropped him and took a step back, realizing a bit late that rushing towards a clearly impossible person was perhaps not brilliant. Trying to make amends for his impulsive non-thinking, he pulled out his flask of holy water and drizzled some on 'Sam'.

No reaction.

He tried one of his silver knives.

Still nothing.

Crowley had done something, that was for sure. The question was what? What _exactly_ did he do? De-age Sam? Pull him through time? Pull _Dean_ through time? And how was he supposed to fix it?

Completely at a loss for what to do, Dean did the only thing that he knew, instinctively, was always the right choice.

He took care of his little brother.

"All right, come on, sport," he said, stowing his assorted weaponry. Reaching down he scooped up the boy—damn, Sammy used to be _small—_ before slinging him over his shoulder and heading back to the Impala.

* * *

Sam awoke to the familiar and comforting sound of the Impala's engine, but he immediately knew something was wrong. The growl was closer, as if he was in the front seat. Sam never rode shotgun; Dean always claimed it first and refused to resolve it with their time-old problem solver: Rock, Paper, Scissors. This was probably due to the fact that Sammy always one, but the young hunter found it unfair anyways. Dad usually had to step in with a gruff, "When you're older, son." Dean would then give him that smug look: one eyebrow raised, lips peeled in a cocky smile.

Jerk.

So why was Sam in the front seat now? And why did his head hurt so much?

It smelled different, too. Less like Dad—leather and gun smoke and his own special something— and more like….honestly, more like Dean. Still leather, but older, somehow. Gun smoke, yes, but less pungent. And instead of that unique Dad-smell….was that hamburgers?

Plus the underlying scent of Dean, which was so much _Dean_ that you could put it in a bottle with his name on it. Dean-smell was stronger than Dad-smell—or at least it was in Sam's mind, because Dean had always been there. Sam had been raised on that smell, more so even then Dad's.

Certainly more than Mom's. He'd only caught a whiff of her when him and Dean had found a shoebox of old photographs tucked away in Bobby's cabin.

It had made Dad cry, though.

So now here Sam was, enveloped in the smell of Dean, in Dean's seat, with a raging headache and really, really, _really_ loud music pounding in his ears.

Had that been there before, or had someone turned it up?

"Rise and shine, Sammy boy!"

The voice was strange, and Sam was sure he'd never heard it before, and yet something about it was terrifyingly familiar. For a moment he thought it was Dad, before changing his mind. Dean? No, too low, too mature, but something in the way he said Sam's name was so uniquely Dean that it couldn't possibly be anyone else.

"I know you're awake, Sam, so quit pretending."

Sam opened his eyes and slowly turned his head towards the driver's seat.

It wasn't Dad. It wasn't Dean.

It was a man, wearing Dad's old leather jacket, the one Dean had so proudly inherited two years ago at age twelve. It was a man with Dean's brownish-blond hair. It was a man with Dean's green eyes.

Sam's eyes took this all in, as well as the gun tucked lazily in the man's pocket. Then he did the natural thing.

He lunged forward, grabbed the gun, clicked off the safety, put his finger on the trigger, and pointed it at his captor's face.

The man cursed and swerved off the road.

"Who are you?" demanded Sam. "How do you know my name? What do you want with me? What did you do with my family?"

The man raised both eyebrows in a _very_ Dean-like gesture, at the same time raising his hands in surrender. "Whoa, there. Slow down, cowboy."

Sam jabbed the gun closer. "Who are you?!" he repeated, his voice rising hysterically.

The man heaved a sigh (again, terrifyingly like Dean's own exhalations) and put his hands down. "All right, listen, pal. Here's how this is gonna work. I'm gonna tell you my name, and you're going to believe it, 'cuz it's true. And you're not going to freak out, and you're not gonna shoot me in the head. Got it?"

Sam stared at him. What?

The stranger seemed to take his silence as an affirmation. "Great. The name's Dean. Your brother, Dean."

This man, Sam decided, was insane. Completely insane. He also had Dad's car, Dean's jacket, and Dad's music playing from the tapes.

 _If you can't fight, run. We'll come find you._

Those were the rules. That's what Dad taught him. And even though Sam was the one with the gun, one look at this lunatic's build and his tough face let Sammy know that he was outmatched.

So he ran.

Shoving the door of the Impala open with sudden force, Sam slid out and hit the ground running. He took off down the road, gun in hand, brown hair bobbing. His breath made clouds in the frosty air, and his lungs seized a bit from the sudden cold.

Sam was a hunter. He'd been training since before he could remember. And even though he was short, he had long legs, so altogether Sam was a fast runner.

But something was wrong.

His head still hurt. His legs ached with each stride. His vision swam.

And then he collapsed, the last sound in his ears the roar of an engine behind him.


	4. Ash Smith

**_I'm ba-ack!_**

 ** _Wow. I just finished season eight. Now spoilers or anything, but the finale was EPIC. And I don't say 'epic'._**

 ** _Well, here's another chapter. Enjoy!_**

 ** _Me: Dean?_**

 ** _Me: Dean? Hello?_**

 ** _Cas: He escaped._**

 ** _Me: Really? Dangit. Oh well, you're here, you can say it._**

 ** _Cas: I do not understand. What is it you want me to say?_**

 ** _Me: The disclaimer._**

 ** _Cas: What?_**

 ** _Me: Copy Sam._**

 ** _Cas: Bianca Valdez does not own Supernatural._**

 ** _Me: Wow. You don't cut around the edges, do you?_**

 ** _Cas: I...don't understand._**

 ** _Me: Forget it._**

* * *

 **Then**

 _When Sam awoke, he found himself tied to a chair._

 _Everything clicked into place. The strange spell, the white light, Crowley's parting words, the familiarity of the room, the boy who looked like Dean…_

 _"_ _I'm, um…" Sam scrambled frantically for a believable alias. "Ash," he finally spat out, thinking of his now-dead friend. "Ash…Smith."_

 _"_ _All right,_ Ash _. Where did you come from, and what did you do with my brother?"_

 _"_ _Look, I'm a hunter too. Whatever it was that took your brother, I was hunting it. Not sure what it was, not sure what it did, but it somehow sent me here and took Sam. I'm not here to hurt you, and I didn't steal your brother."_

 _"_ _So what's your name?" asked Sam tentatively. Not that he didn't already know; the question was completely for Dean's benefit._

 _"_ _I'm Dean."_

 **Now**

Dean wasn't sure what to think.

The man—Ash—made him nervous, there was no denying it. Perhaps it was his age, or his build, or his Sasquatchian height. All were viable reasons, another being his sudden appearance in the motel room, which, of course, was accompanied by Sam's disappearance.

He had every reason to be wary. Yet none of the above were reasons for his unease.

Ash seemed familiar. Not like déjà vu, or like a face similar to someone you know, or features shared by a photograph in an advertisement. No, Dean felt, deep down, _fundamentally_ , that he knew this man.

Which was completely insane, of course. Dean had never met him in his life. And _Ash Smith_? Come on. There was _no way_ that was his real name. So if Ash wasn't here for nefarious reasons, why did he find it necessary to supply Dean with an alias?

What was he hiding?

Dean stood slumped against the counter, glaring sullenly at Ash as he sat at the table of the motel's small kitchenette. The man's brow was wrinkled as he poured over that week's newspapers.

"Got anything?"

Ash looked up, startled. "Uh…I don't know," he admitted. "But listen, there's several suspicious deaths in the area. This one guy—"

"I know," Dean interrupted. "I've read all the articles. I'm the one who found the case."

"So you're already on it?" asked Ash. "Is that where your dad is?"

Ash's intuition was eerie when it came to these things. Dean had mentioned his dad before, mentioned that they were hunters, so it wasn't that far a stretch to that conclusion. But the other hunter said it so matter-of-factly, like he somehow _knew_ he was right. He'd used the same tone when guessing Dean's age (Fourteen), asking if they had the last papers from that week (as if he was certain they did), estimating when Dad would be back ('So when will he be back? Six days? Seven?'), guessing where the weapons were hidden (in the closet, under the mattress, in the coat rack), and even finding the knife that Dean hid under his pillow and making him swear not to stab Ash in the middle of the night, or when he was woken up in the morning.

"Yeah," said Dean gruffly in response to the earlier inquiry. Unable to stand it, a question sprung unbidden from his lips. "How do you know?"

Ash looked up at him again. "Sorry?"

"You just seem to know these things. You ask it like a question, but you seem like you already know the answer. How do you do that?"

The older hunter stared at him for several long moments, seemingly at a loss for words. "I…uh," he cleared his throat. "I don't know. I guess, just, intuition?"

Dean's eyebrow flew up and the suspicious answer. "Huh."

"Yeah."

Silence descended on the room again.

"Are you psychic?"

"What?!" Ash almost fell backwards out of this chair this time. "What makes you say that?"

Dean crossed his arms stubbornly. "Well, are you?"

"No! Of course not!" Ash huffed and turned back to his papers, but his eyes flitted to look back at Dean nervously.

Wow. Not suspicious at all.

"So do you know what it is?"

Dean looked back at the inquisitive face, the big hazel eyes looking at him curiously. Wait a minute, he _knew_ that expression.

That was Sammy's expression.

 _No._ Dean shook himself free of the thought. Ash looked a bit like Sam, so what? People can look similar without it meaning anything.

Those _eyes_ though.

"You mean the creature Dad's hunting?"

Ash nodded. "Yeah."

"Banshee, we think. Dad said it'd be a tricky one, so he shouldn't be back for a little while, but he'll handle it. He always handles it. He's the best hunter in the world."

Dean honestly wasn't sure where that last part came from, but he felt for some reason that he needed to reinforce Dad's awesomeness to this strange hunter. Who knew, Ash might think _he_ was the best hunter. Dean had to set that straight.

A small smile spread itself across Ash's lips. "Is he?" he asked, sounding amused.

"Definitely. Why, you think you know someone better?"

Ash closed his eyes briefly. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I do."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Who?" he challenged.

Another smile graced his face and he looked up at Dean. "A friend." There was laughter in his tone, like they had shared a joke and only he knew the punch line. But it was tinged with a sort of bittersweet loneliness, as if he was remembering someone special who he couldn't quite reach.

Who was this guy? Obviously he wasn't telling Dean everything, so what was he hiding? And not for one second did Dean buy that story about him 'hunting the thing that stole Sammy'.

No, Dean didn't trust 'Ash' one bit. So he decided to do something that he should have done right off the bat.

Dean was going to call Dad.

* * *

 _"_ _John Winchester."_

"Dad, it's me, Dean."

 _"_ _Dean? Son, I'm in the middle of a hunt. This had better be something important."_

"Sammy's missing."

Silence on the other end.

It was night. Ash was sleeping, his humongous form sprawled out across the couch where he'd crashed. Dean stood outside the motel, quietly talking to Dad. He didn't trust Ash; it was time to find out if he was really a hunter or not.

"Dad? You still there?" The quiet seemed to stretch on too far, suggesting that Dad had hung up, but Dean could faintly hear the sound of John's heavy breathing.

Dad was panicking.

 _"_ _What happened? Tell me everything."_

Dean took a deep breath, shooting a glance towards the motel door. "You ever heard of a hunter called Ash Smith?"

 _"_ _What?! Dean, is there someone there with you?"_

"Well, yeah, but Dad—"

 _"_ _Dammit! All right. Sit tight, son, I'll be there by morning. Don't let him out of your sight for one moment. Stay on guard, keep a weapon on you at all times, and don't let him know you suspect anything. Be careful, Dean!"_

"Dad, wait—"

 _Click._

Dean stared at the phone in his hand, silently cursing himself for not explaining the situation better. Now Dad was on his way. He'd abandoned his hunt and was tearing towards them to save his youngest son, filled with the intent and purpose of turning Ash into ground meat.

"Crap."

* * *

There was something wrong with Dean.

Most people wouldn't notice it, but the two of them had been together practically their whole lives, and Sam had learned to pick up on the little things.

Such as the way his brother kept rubbing his neck. And mussing up his hair. And furrowing his eyebrows.

Sam noticed it the minute he'd gotten up. Dean was a good liar, but Sam was the one person he couldn't fool. But if he was lying, he must have his reasons, so Sam decided to play along.

It was 9:00 in the morning, and golden sunlight flooded through the windows of the motel. Sam reached down to grab his flannel shirt and jacket, which he'd discarded last night before going to sleep. With a large yawn, he tucked his long arms into the sleeves of the first layer.

"So you got anything in the fridge, or—"

The door swung open with a bang to reveal the gun-wielding figure of John Winchester.


	5. A Hard Day's Night

_**Virtual pie to anyone who correctly guesses the origin of the title!**_

 _ **Anyhoo, here's another. Before we get started, I just want you to know that I do NOT like the Weechester stories which feature an abusive John. While he's maybe not my favorite character, I also believe that he tries his very best for his sons. And while maybe he's not the dad of the year, he's not a bad parent. He loves his children and, while he is hard on them, he supports them in every way he can. The toughness is due to stress, alcohol, and a need to prepare his boys for what's out there. John does not hit them, or yell at them when they really can't handle it. He knows how far to go, and he won't push too far and hurt them. So if John comes across a bit rough in this chapter, it is because Sammy is missing and he does not know what to do. There is a strange man in the motel with his oldest, his youngest is gone, and he takes it out on adult-Sam to try and get his baby back.**_

 _ **Now that we've gotten that rant over with, I present to you the disclaimer.**_

 _ **Me: Oh CAAASSSSSIIIIEEEEE!**_

 _ **Cas: Hello, Bianca.**_

 _ **Me: Hey there! Do me a favor and say the disclaimer, will ya?**_

 _ **Cas:**_ ** _Bianca Valdez does not own Supernatural._**

 ** _Me: That is literally the EXACT same thing you said last time. Add some color._**

 ** _Cas: I...am afraid that I don't understand._**

 ** _Me: Basically, I am writing a story using characters that I don't own. You have to say that for the readers so I don't get in trouble for copyright infringement, even though this is a fan fiction website and the whole concept of the disclaimer is completely redundant._**

 ** _Cas: I thought what I had said previously was adequate for your intentions._**

 ** _Me: Yeah, it was, but—_**

 ** _Cas: But what?_**

 ** _Me: Oh, never mind. On with the story!_**

* * *

 **Then**

 _The Winchesters stared at him with undisguised horror as the room began to fill with a blindingly white light. "What did you do?!" shouted Sam._

 _Crowley flashed a grin. "Have fun with this one, boys!"_

 _"_ _I'm, um…" Sam scrambled frantically for a believable alias. "Ash," he finally spat out, thinking of his now-dead friend. "Ash…Smith."_

 _"_ _Sammy's missing."_

 _"_ _Dammit! All right. Sit tight, son, I'll be there by morning. Don't let him out of your sight for one moment. Stay on guard, keep a weapon on you at all times, and don't let him know you suspect anything. Be careful, Dean!"_

 _The door swung open with a bang to reveal the gun-wielding figure of John Winchester._

 _"_ _Great. The name's Dean. Your brother, Dean."_

 _This man, Sam decided, was insane._

 _If you can't fight, run. We'll come find you._

 _So he ran._

 _Sammy collapsed, the last sound in his ears the roar of an engine behind him._

 **Now**

The desk girl had looked at him funny when Dean had entered the motel carrying a ten-year-old over his shoulder, but he'd flashed his best smile and assured her that 'my kid brother's tuckered out after such a long day, you know kids' and she'd let it slide. Hopefully she wasn't calling the police at this moment.

Even if she was, that wasn't his biggest problem. His biggest problem was Sammy.

The kid was passed out on the motel bed. Dean had checked him over, and he seemed fine, though unconscious. Probably had something to do with being wrenched through time…

Something stirred inside Dean that he hadn't recognized in a long time. Oh, it had always been there, but it'd been a while since it had emerged in full form like this. The need to protect his little brother, the will to be with him and shield him from the pain…

He'd failed in latter years, failed to keep Sam safe. Sam had been battered and bruised in so many ways, both mentally and physically, and try as he might, Dean couldn't stop it. He'd even been the cause of some of that pain.

So he'd given up. Not completely, but something caved inside him. He would still look out for Sam, always, but he'd begun to realize that he couldn't protect his brother forever. Sam had to grown up eventually, and Dean had to let him do it. He'd given up; he was done.

And now here was Sam, young again, naïve and fragile and so much happier. He'd lost Mom, but he'd never really known her, and sure, he didn't have the apple-pie life he wanted, but he was alive. He had Dad. He had Dean. They blazed around the country in a flame of heroics, hunting things down and saving lives. Here was little Sammy, unburdened by the knowledge of demon blood and angels and Lucifer. Here was a Sammy who hadn't been to Hell. Who hadn't left the life only to be dragged back in by Jessica's death. Who still believed in the good inside everyone.

Here was a Sammy who still needed Dean.

And Dean would be damned if he wouldn't step up to that responsibility.

* * *

Sam stared at the figure silhouetted in the doorway, uncomprehending.

 _Dad?_

Of course, he'd known all along that in this time, John was still alive. But he'd been off hunting, and Sam had thought maybe he could get home before he returned.

And yet here he was. Now Dean's early discomfort made sense. He must have called Dad and told him about the situation.

So…from Dad's perspective, he was a potentially insane maybe-hunter who was a threat to his sons and was responsible for the disappearance of Sam's own younger self.

Great.

Why was his life so complicated?

All other thoughts went out the window, though, when John rushed forward, slamming Sam the wall. "Who are you?" he shouted, gun cocked, and chills ran down Sam's back.

There was that voice. Sam hadn't realized how much he missed it.

"Dad?" he croaked, the word slipping out unbidden.

"What?!" John pressed closer, unsure of what he'd just heard. Sam shook himself; no, he had to play this cool. He couldn't give anything away. Even if seeing his deceased father made his knees feel wobbly and his stomach clench. Even if each heartbeat was a little louder in his chest and all he wanted to do was open his arms and embrace John and never let go, never ever again.

Sam cleared his throat. "Ash," he said more clearly, hoping the single syllable words were similar enough to pass as one and the same. "Ash Smith. I'm a hunter, like you. Look, I didn't hurt any—"

John lifted Sam forward before shoving him hard against the wall again, forcing a small grunt out of Sam's mouth. "Where's Sammy?"

"I don't know!" said Sam desperately. "Honestly, I don't! I want to find whatever did this as much as you do, but—"

"No!" John shook his head adamantly. "You're lying!"

"I'm really not—"

The fist came out of nowhere, and suddenly Sam was on the ground, eyes watering and nose bleeding. "Tell the truth!" demanded John. "What did you do with Sam?! _Where is my son?!"_ His voice cracked on the last syllable, and Sam could see the desperation in his eyes.

God, he missed him. _Dad_ , his heart cried out silently. _It's me. I'm right here!_ But Sam knew that John couldn't hear it. His father was dead. This man, here, this man who would do anything for his sons, was dead. He'd died doing what he'd always done: protecting his boys. Saving them. Bringing them back from the point of no return and sacrificing himself to do it. Sam had never said it out loud, but if Dean had died that day so many years ago, he would have been unable to continue and he would have died as well.

And now Dad thought he was a monster.

Sam raised his hands in surrender, trying slowly to back away from this furious ghost of his past. "I _don't know_!" he said plaintively. He had no illusions that John would spare him; if his father thought this was the way to get his youngest back, he'd kill 'Ash Smith' in a heartbeat. And wouldn't that be ironic? Wouldn't Crowley just _love_ that?

But Sam didn't know what to do. There was no way he could tell the truth. No way he'd be believed. So that meant lying to the two people he loved most, and hoping his own father wouldn't kill him for it.

Basically, another day in the life of a Winchester.

"Listen, I'm sorry," said Sam hoarsely as John raised his arm to inflict another blow. "I can't prove anything, but I _swear_ I didn't hurt your son!"

John shook his head, and Sam was startled to see that the man seemed to have tears in his eyes. At the same time, Sam realized that he too was crying.

"I don't know what to—" John's voice broke and he lowered his arm. "Go," he said quietly, gesturing towards the door. "Get out of here."

Dean, who had been watching in horrified fascination the entire time, stepped forward. "But Dad, he hasn't told us—"

"Shut up, Dean!" roared John, and Dean flinched back. John closed his eyes briefly as if re-gathering his strength, before turning back to Sam. "Go!" he cried. "Before I kill you!"

Sam picked himself up slowly and grabbed his jacket from the couch. Then he stumbled out the door to Dean's parting shot of, "If we find out you hurt Sammy, we'll hunt you down and kill you then!"

Then the door slammed behind him and Sam was all alone, stranded in the past, blood running from his nose and a bruise forming around his left eye. He had no weapons but a small knife and a flask of holy water. No phone and no one to call, anyway. No money to buy food, no car to drive him places, no places to go. No leads to take him home.

And, as he soon realized, no flannel shirt.

* * *

It was the muffled groan, which alerted Dean to his brother's wakefulness. A small smile on his face, he decided to enjoy the sight of Sam wrenching himself back from the dreamworld. It was enjoyable on a normal day, but to again see little Sammy waking up…priceless.

"Howdy, partner."

Sam started, jerking into sitting position so fast that Dean was afraid he might have given himself whiplash. "Whoa, there, tiger. How you feeling?" he moved to sit down on the bed, and Sam tried to scoot away from him.

"What do you want with me?" said Sammy loudly, eyes darting around for an escape root. Dean sighed. Why were they such paranoid little children?

"I told you. I'm your brother. I'm taking care of you."

"You're crazy! You're not my brother!" Sam said, sliding off the bed and backing towards the door. "Why do you think that?! What are you?!"

Dean rolled his eyes. He got enough of grown-Sam's drama without needing this crap. "Look, Sammy," he said, standing. "I'm _Dean_. I know that sounds crazy, and it is, but we're all hunters here, right? 'Crazy' is our life!"

Sam froze, hand on the doorknob. "How do you know I'm a hunter?"

"Same way I know that your birthday is May 2nd," said Dean, crossing his arms smugly. "And that you hate broccoli. That your car is a 1967 Chevy Impala, and you drive around the country with Dad and me. There's a weapons compartment under the trunk. You've been hunting ever since you were six months old and a demon killed Mom." Dean stopped, inspecting his brother to see if he'd gotten the point across.

"Anyone could find out about those things, " said Sam, but he sounded doubtful. "Tell me something only Dean would know."

Dean sighed. "Christmas of '90. You were seven years old, and you were upset that Dad wasn't going to be back and we wouldn't tell you anything, so you stole Dad's journal. You know, that was the Christmas I stole you chick gifts, wasn't it?"

Sam dropped the knife he'd somehow procured and was hiding behind his back. It fell to the linoleum floor with a metallic clanking.

" _Dean?_ "


	6. Of Angels and Demons

_**Howdy, folks. Is me again. Camp NaNoWriMo is a very good motivator. I NEVER update this frequently.**_

 _ **I think now would be a good time to tell you my standing on pairings. The short answer is that I don't like them. Canon pairings are cute, but for me, non-canon pairings are a big no-no. Therefore, I do not ship Destiel, Samifer, Sabriel, or any of the other ridiculous pairings. ESPECIALLY not Wincest. (I'm not trying to be offensive, but they're BROTHERS. Seriously, people?)**_

 _ **There will be no non-canon pairings in this story. There will be friendship, platonic love, and lots of Sam and Dean brotherly cuteness. Dean will flirt because that's what he does. But there will be no shipping.**_

 _ **Just to clear that up. I mean no offense to anyone who likes that kind of thing. You are entitled to your opinions. Just know that this story isn't about shipping different characters. It is about the Winchester boys meeting their younger selves and learning something new. It is about self-reflectiveness by Sam and Dean. It is about brotherhood.**_

 _ **It is ALSO about the Winchesters being adorable morons, gag-reelesque double-versions of our boys, and laughing your heads off because CAS.**_

 ** _Also, yes. The previous title was from a Beatles song. Pie to anyone who guessed it._**

 ** _On to the story._**

 _ **Me: Sam.**_

 _ **Sam: *sighs loudly***_

 _ **Me: Saa-aaam.**_

 ** _Sam: Bianca._**

 ** _Me: DO IT._**

 ** _Sam: Will you let me go if I do?_**

 ** _Me: Uh...no._**

 ** _Sam: Ugh._**

 ** _Me: SAAAAAAAAM!_**

 ** _Sam: Fine! Bianca Valdez does NOT OWN ME. Even though apparently she thinks she does!_**

 ** _Me: *flashes innocent smile* Thank you, Sammy. That's very sweet of you._**

 ** _Sam: *sighs again*_**

* * *

 **Then**

 _"_ _I'm, um…" Sam scrambled frantically for a believable alias. "Ash," he finally spat out, thinking of his now-dead friend. "Ash…Smith."_

 _"_ _Sammy's missing."_

 _"_ _Dammit! All right. Sit tight, son, I'll be there by morning. Don't let him out of your sight for one moment. Stay on guard, keep a weapon on you at all times, and don't let him know you suspect anything. Be careful, Dean!"_

 _The door swung open with a bang to reveal the gun-wielding figure of John Winchester._

 _"_ _What did you do with Sam?! Where is my son?!"_

 _"_ _I don't know!"_

 _"_ _Go!" John cried. "Before I kill you!"_

 _Sam stumbled out the door to Dean's parting shot of, "If we find out you hurt Sammy, we'll hunt you down and kill you then!"_

 _"_ _I'm your brother. I'm taking care of you."_

 _"_ _You're crazy! You're not my brother!" Sam said, sliding off the bed and backing towards the door. "Why do you think that?! What are you?!"_

 _"_ _Tell me something only Dean would know."_

 _"Christmas of '90. You were upset that we wouldn't tell you anything, so you stole Dad's journal."_

 _"_ _Dean?"_

 **Now**

"Wow."

Sam sat on the bed with his older brother, stunned.

"Yeah."

"How is that even possible?" Sam queried. "I mean, _time travel_? Seriously?"

Dean shrugged. "You get used to it."

"Wait, you mean…does this happen to you a lot? And, um, you know, to me? Future me?"

"A couple times, yeah. There hasn't been a trade-off before."

"Wow," Sam said, repeating his earlier statement. "Where'd you go? Uh…I mean _when_? And I guess it'd be when did _we_ go…or when _will_ we go…wait a second—"

Dean let out a low chuckle (and man, was his voice deep. When did that happen? And how come he was so tall?) and reached a hand out to ruffle Sam's hair. "Don't tie yourself in knots trying to figure it out. I find it's best to just let it be."

Sam gave a small smile and looked down at his hands. "Seriously though. Where?"

There was a sigh, and Sam looked sideways at his brother. "I think the less you know about your future, the better," he said.

"But I'm here, aren't I?" argued Sam. "So everything's gone crazy anyway. What're a few spoilers gonna do?"

Dean laughed, a full, real laugh this time. "You got a point there, Sammy. But I just don't know…"

Sam really wanted to know, so he did the tried and tested age-old manipulation tactic. Cue puppy eyes.

"Please, Dean?"

The green eyes peered at him, before quickly darting away, looking anywhere but at his face, and Sam knew that he'd already won. "Oh, come on," swore Dean. "Just when I'm starting to think you've outgrown that look, time travel! Great."

" _Please?_ "

"Fine!" exclaimed his brother, throwing his hands up in the air. "Ok, so _you_ don't do it very often."

"But I _did_ get to do it."

"Really, just the one time."

Why was Dean avoiding the question? "Dean, _where did I go?_ "

Dean sighed. "You...you get to meet…" he stopped.

"I get to meet _who_ , Dean?"

"Mom."

"Oh," said Sam quietly, looking away. And then, "Did she like me?"

Dean rolled his eyes, but they were sad. "Of course she did," he said. "You may be annoying, but apparently you have some redeeming qualities. Mom's are like that. They don't care if you're a little twerp."

Sam laughed and got up to look out the window. The world wasn't all that different; guns and old food containers strewn about the motel room, the Impala parked outside, the sun beating down on another monster-filled day. Then a thought occurred to him.

"Hey, Dean? What do I look like when I'm all grown up?"

"Well," said Dean, getting up and moving towards the small fridge. "You've got really long, girly hair, for starters."

"What?!" Sam cried, whirling on him. "No way!"

"Yep. Shoulder-length, dark brown, all nice and wavy. You become a princess, Sampunzel."

Sam picked up a crumpled shirt from where it lay strewn on the bed and bundled it up. Then he threw it at Dean's head.

Dean put his hands up in surrender, a beer clasped in one of them. "Hey, I'm just letting you know the truth. I can pull up a picture if you want."

Sam crossed his arms. "Yeah, do that. I won't believe it otherwise."

"Oo-kay," laughed Dean, pulling out his phone (which was a bit like something out of Star Trek, honestly) and fiddling with it for a moment, before turning it around for Sam to see.

"Gimme that," said Sam, grabbing the device and staring at the screen. On it was a picture of two men laughing as they clinked a pair of beer bottles together. One of them was Dean. The other….

"Dude, I'm _tall_!" Sam exclaimed. "When does that happen?"

"You mean when do you _really_ become a total pain?" asked Dean. "It starts when you're twelvish. By the time you hit sixteen, you're taller than me. By eighteen, you're at six foot four."

"Six _four?"_ gasped Sam. "Whoa. And dude, that hair isn't _too_ bad."

"Yeah, whatever, man. One night it is coming off in your sleep."

With a contented sigh, Sammy sunk down onto the couch, before looking expectantly up at his brother, a more serious look in his eyes. "Dean, how are we gonna fix this? How are we gonna bring your Sam back and send me home?"

Dean moved to sit down next to him, taking a long sip of beer as he did so. "Not easily," he said. "Time travel is supposed to be impossible."

"Oh," said Sam, a sinking feeling in his stomach. How was he supposed to get back to Dad? Where _was_ Dad in this time, anyway?

" _But_ ," said Dean, smirking. "Because I'm awesome, I've got an idea."

A grin spread across Sammy's face. "Really?"

"Hell, yeah. Say it with me: 'Dean is awesome'."

Sam rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling.

* * *

Sam drew in a gasping breath as he struggled out of yet another demon's stranglehold.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanic potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta—"

He broke off as the demon slammed his against the wall, the corrupted soul releasing a bone-chilling scream. Sam grimaced, but slowly got to his feet. "Et secta diabolica. Ergo, draco mal—"

Another demon came up from behind and punched him hard in the head. Sam was thrown to the ground, his ears ringing and black dots dancing in his line of vision. Man, did he miss Ruby's knife.

"Draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te—"

The chokehold was back, and Sam's spine met the wall again, so hard that the plaster cracked. The demon's black eyes stared at him hatefully as it slowly squeezed the life from him.

It was like there was a beast inside his chest, a monster trying to claw its way up his throat. The monster needed air, and it wasn't afraid to burn his lungs to escape. Sam's vision began to dim, and he briefly thought how ironic it was for him to have survived so much, only to be killed by your everyday run-of-the-mill villain back during the time of his childhood.

And this time, Dean wasn't there to save him. Dean was twenty-something years in the future, presumably with Sam's younger self. It was an interesting paradox.

Then, just as Sam was beginning to realize that there really was no way out this time, a familiar voice finished the incantation.

"Te rogamus, audi nos!"

The demon threw back its head and released a loud scream, black smoke spiraling from its mouth. The body of the man it was possessing crumpled to the ground, long-since dead.

At least angels had the courtesy to heal their vessels of any wounds they received.

Sam fell to the ground, coughing and gasping, his vision slowly returning. With a low moan, he let his head roll back against the cold cement floor of the abandoned factory.

"Boy, you look like you've been run over by a steam roller. What happened to you?"

"Demons, Bobby," said Sam with a weak chuckle, eyes closed. "Demons happened."

* * *

"You have an angel on speed dial?"

Dean smiled smugly at the incredulous face staring up at him. "Sure do."

"But….how? How are angels even real? I thought they were just stories! Wait, does that mean that God is real too? How about the rest of the bible? What are they like, angels? Have you met many? When did you find out about them? Do they actually have halos? Do they—"

"Hey, slow down!" said Dean, struggling to keep up with the once-familiar tide of questions. It'd been a while since Sammy had been this inquisitive, and in all honesty, he was enjoying it. He liked being the big brother again. He liked that Sam, this Sam, still believed in him. Still trusted him to solve all his problems. To be the superhero.

"Look, it's a long story," he said, pulling up Castiel's number on his phone. "You should just know that most of the angels are real jerks. The one I'm calling just happens to be one of the good guys.

"Is—"

"Shush," hushed Dean as he pressed the call button. The phone rang several times before dying out in an abrupt click.

Had Cas seriously just hung up on him?

Then the phone began to ring with the angel's number, and Dean rolled his eyes before answering. "Hey."

 _"_ _Dean, I apologize. I pressed the wrong button on this phone. Evidently the red button silences the call."_

Dean sighed. "Whenever we have time, remind me to teach you how the damn thing works. Now listen, I need your help."

 _"_ _Of course_ ," said the angel. " _Where are you?"_

"Piney Plains Motel," said Dean. "Small town outside of Richmond. Get here."

"Dean."

The hunter spun around at the word, and Sammy fell off the bed. "Holy—" he yelped. "Where'd you…"

There in the middle of the room, in all his trench-coated glory, was Castiel. He cocked his head at Sam, brow furrowing above his cobalt-blue eyes. "Sam," he said. "But not…this time's Sam." Confused, he turned back to Dean.

"Tell me what happened."


	7. The Not-So-Strangers

_**Oh my god, Season Nine. No spoilers, but it is painful to watch. I keep having to go back to previous seasons and de-stress myself. The Ghostfacers episodes are good for a laugh. So are "Tall Tales" and "The French Mistake". And the S2 finale is surprisingly relaxing, which is funny because it made me want to cry the first time I watched it. I swear though, this show is gonna kill me.**_

 _ **Oh, the gag reels are good to. If you haven't seen those, I'd recommend you take a look. They are HYSTERICAL.**_

 _ **Yeah, so. Another chapter. Guys, I'm going to have to ask you to start reviewing. To those of you who have reviewed, thank you so much. The rest of you...please? Feedback? I'll give you pie...**_

 _ **I must get at least two reviews before the next chapter is posted. I hate it when authors do that, I really do. But I think you can manage TWO. Seriously. I really really REALLY love them. They make me feel like a movie star.**_

 _ **Me: S-**_

 _ **Sam: Bianca Valdez does not own Supernatural or any of the associated character.**_

 _ **Me: Whoa, that was quick.**_

 _ **Sam: Figured I'd get it over with.**_

* * *

 **Then**

 _The Winchesters stared at him with undisguised horror as the room began to fill with a blindingly white light. "What did you do?!" shouted Sam._

 _Crowley flashed a grin. "Have fun with this one, boys!"_

 _"_ _You have an angel on speed dial?"_

 _There in the middle of the room, in all his trench-coated glory, was Castiel. "Sam," he said. "But not…this time's Sam. Tell me what happened."_

 _Sam stumbled out the door to Dean's parting shot of, "If we find out you hurt Sammy, we'll hunt you down and kill you then!"_

 _The demon's black eyes stared at him hatefully as it slowly squeezed the life from him. Just when Sam was beginning to realize that there really was no way out this time, a familiar voice finished the incantation._

 _"_ _Boy, you look like you've been run over by a steam roller. What happened to you?"_

 _"_ _Demons, Bobby," said Sam with a weak chuckle, eyes closed. "Demons happened."_

 **Now**

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Bobby Singer stared down at the half-dead young man who lay on the floor before him. The kid opened his eyes slightly and peered up at him, his mouth forming a perfect 'o'.

"I…uh…" he tried to get to his feet, but stumbled, and Bobby caught him. Eyes narrowing, he noticed a dark red stain spreading across the boy's side, as well as the bruises forming on his jaw, around his eyes, and in stripes around his neck. His right arm seemed to be dislocated as well, and overall the kid looked like he'd been in a meat grinder.

"Take it easy, son," said Bobby, catching him before he could fall. "What were you doing takin' on a demon all on yer own? And how come you know me, when I'm pretty damn sure I've never seen you before?"

The young man laughed, then winced as if it had hurt him. Broken rib, maybe? Bruised, in any case. "It's kind of a long story," he said weakly.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "I'll bet. Let's get you out of here first, shall we? Make sure know more demons show up. And I think you need some medical attention."

"Yeah..." said the man, trailing off as his head lolled back. Bobby rolled his eyes and hoisted him over his shoulder.

"I'm gettin' too old for this," he grumbled as he headed for his truck.

* * *

"So…you're an angel. An actual angel."

Cas nodded seriously. "Yes. My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the lord."

"And…do all angels looks like office workers?"

Dean sat on the couch, amusedly watching this intercourse between his brother and his angel. Sammy seemed awed by Cas, and Cas seemed intrigued by Sam's inquisitiveness. Rolling his eyes, he stood to interrupt them.

"All right, enough chit-chat," he said, popping the lid off a beer bottle and taking a swig. "Cas, can you reverse the spell?"

"No," said Cas. "This spell is irreversible except by the original caster. I'm afraid that unless you can convince Crowley to undo it, we are stuck with this Sam."

Dean sighed and took another drink. "Dammit. Fine. Can you take us back?"

Cas seemed surprised. "Take you back to this Sam's time? Both of you?"

Sam raised a hand. "Wait a second. You can time travel?"

"Yes, he can. That's beside the point. Cas, can you take us back?"

The angel squirmed. "Yes…" he said reluctantly. "But it would be difficult. And I would be weakened."

"Right, like the time we followed Anna," said Dean, remembering that disastrous event. "Ok, well, we survived, didn't we?"

Cas stood and adjusted his trench coat. "Perhaps it would be simpler for me to bring only Sam," he began, but Dean shook his head adamantly.

"No. I'm going with you. If something goes wrong, I need to be there."

"Uh…is something likely to go wrong?" interjected Sam. "And how bad is 'wrong'?"

Dean ignored him studiously. "You said it yourself it would drain your batteries. If you get there and you're all out of juice, who's gonna protect Sammy?"

"I'm not completely useless you know!"

Cas sighed. "Fine. I can take you back. It may be a while before we find him though. He could be anywhere in the past. Sam," he said, turning to the boy, who looked relieved to finally be included. "What was the exact date you were taken from?"

"Um…" said Sam, brow furrowing. "February 17, 1993. Afternoonish, I think. Do you need, like, the exact time? Because I have no idea…"

Cas shook his head. "No. The correct date is adequate. Here, take my hand."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said Dean. "Wait a second. Not right _now_."

"Why not?" asked Cas, confused. "Dean, we must reach Sam as soon as possible, before the past is altered any more than is repairable."

Dean crossed his arms. "We need to pack, for starters. I'm not heading back there without being prepared for everything. And I'm sure Sammy here is tired. Maybe we should wait until tomorrow? Rest up?" he shot his brother a meaningful look, as was met with an indignant expression.

"I'm fine!" said Sam, getting to his feet stubbornly. "I wanna go home, now!"

Dean grinned. "Atta boy," he said. "Still need to grab some stuff though."

"Yeah, okay," Sam shrugged. "What are we bringing?"

* * *

His everything hurt.

Sam blearily blinked his eyes open, wincing as the light momentarily blinded him. Groaning, he sat up and looked about him.

Metal walls. Mildly inappropriate posters of women. Books. Guns. Fan above him. Devil's Trap on the floor. He was currently sitting on a rickety metal bed on the round wall.

Bobby's panic room.

 _His_ Bobby, or past Bobby?

This question was soon answered as the door creaked open, and the man himself walked in. "Oh," he said in his unique accent. "Yer awake."

The hair slightly browner, the lines on his face slightly fewer, the clothes he wore slightly cleaner. Past Bobby.

"Uh…hey," said Sam, massaging his forehead. "I…how did I get here?"

Bobby rolled his eyes and grabbed a glass of water from the nearby table. "I brought ya here, ya idjit," he said, handing Sam the drink.

Sam took a deep swig, the liquid immediately relieving the dryness of his throat. It was oddly stale, though, and from that and the look that Bobby was giving him, he knew it was holy water.

"I'm not a demon," he said, raising the glass meaningfully.

"Well, can't hurt to check," said Bobby, taking the glass back and refilling it with fresh, cold water. "You got a name?"

"Uh, yeah," said Sam, blinking away the lights that still swam before his eyes. "I'm S—Ash."

"Don't you lie to me, boy," threatened Bobby. "What's it actually?"

Sam sighed, a small smile playing on his face. "Sam," he said. There were a lot of Sams. Couldn't hurt, right?

"Huh. That's weird. I know a Sam who looks a bit like you. Same eyes, if ya know what I mean."

"Oh yeah?"

Bobby nodded. "Younger, though. Boy's barely ten years old, and already hunting."

Sam didn't know what to say to that. "Sounds dangerous," he finally came up with.

Bobby laughed dryly. "You betcha. Apparently his dad's gone and lost him, too. Idjit called in a panic last night. That's why I was out there to save yer neck."

"About that," said Sam. "Thanks."

"Is' no problem."

"No, really," Sam insisted. "Thank you. If you hadn't shown up, I don't know if I'd have gotten out of there. I've had a rough couple of days."

"Boy, why were you out there by yerself?" Bobby said, turning on him. "When I came in, there was more than just one demon there. How many'd you exorcise?"

"Uh…five? Six?"

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Why'd ya have so many on you?"

"It's…" Sam laughed. "It's a long story. I guess they just really don't like me."

"Hm," said Bobby suspiciously. "Sam, lemme tell you how this is gonna work. Yer gonna tell me who exactly you are, and why you've got a hoard of demons on yer tail. Then, if I like the answer, we'll go get something into that stomach of yours. If I don't like the answer, then I'll shoot ya. Got it?"

Sam swallowed. "No, really, it's a long, _long_ story."

"I got time."

"You won't believe it."

"Try me."


	8. Hello Sammy

**_Good news! I got over my writer's block! For now, at least. Thank you, all, for your incredible input. It was actually really helpful. Funnily enough,_** **sunshine102897** ** _suggested EXACTLY what I'd typed out for this chapter. So, good for you Sunny!_**

 ** _Anyhoo. Here it is. This chapter is dedicated to_** **Soulhearts** ** _for their incredibly awesome in every way super-helpful confidence-building made-my-day review. It is also dedicated to the rest of my readers reviewed, favorited, followed, or even just read this story. That people are actually reading this makes me a very happy person._**

 ** _Me: Hey, Sam, Dean, Crowley, Cas!_**

 ** _Sam, Dean, Crowley and Cas: What._**

 ** _Me: I'm actually giving you guys a break! We have a special guest for today's disclaimer!_**

 ** _Crowley: Oh? And who would that be?_**

 ** _Me: Well, let's see if you can guess. He can look like different people..._**

 ** _Dean: A shifter? Really?_**

 ** _Me: He's British..._**

 ** _Sam: That sounds like Crowley._**

 ** _Me: Like Cas here, he wears I trench coat..._**

 ** _Cas: *cocks head* Do you refer to the Doctor?_**

 ** _Doctor: Hello!_**

 ** _Dean: Cas, how could you possibly know that?_**

 ** _*SMALL SPOILER FOR SEASON 9*_**

 ** _Cas: I now have knowledge of popular culture._**

 ** _*SPOILER ZONE CLEARED*_**

 ** _Dean: Uh...ok._**

 ** _Me: Doctor?_**

 ** _Doctor: Well, I don't have long, the world needs saving and all, but since I have a time machine and therefore all the time in the world, I'd love to! You know, once I had to say a disclaimer at the reading of a Declaration of independence of the fifth moon of of Tarun from—_**

 ** _Rose: *off in the distance* Doctor! It's flashing red again!_**

 ** _Doctor: Oh, sorry, better hurry it up then! Bianca Valdez does not own Supernatural or, in this case, Doctor Who! Allonsy! *runs off*_**

* * *

 **Then**

 _"_ _Can you take us back?"_

 _"_ _Take you back to this Sam's time? Both of you? It would be difficult. I would be weakened. Perhaps it would be simpler for me to bring only Sam."_

 _"_ _No. I'm going with you. If something goes wrong, I need to be there."_

 _"_ _I'm not a demon," he said, raising the glass meaningfully._

 _"_ _Well, can't hurt to check. You got a name?"_

 _"_ _I'm S—Ash."_

 _"_ _Don't you lie to me, boy," threatened Bobby. "What's it actually?"_

 _"_ _Sam."_

 _"_ _Sam, lemme tell you how this is gonna work. Yer gonna tell me who exactly you are, and why you've got a hoard of demons on yer tail. Then, if I like the answer, we'll go get something into that stomach of yours. If I don't like the answer, then I'll shoot ya. Got it?"_

 _Sam swallowed. "No, really, it's a long, long story."_

 _"_ _I got time."_

 _"_ _You won't believe it."_

 _"_ _Try me."_

 **Now**

Sam stared at Bobby, brow furrowed. "I….I can't tell you."

Bobby crossed his arms stubbornly. "Start talkin' 'for I shoot ya, boy!" he said loudly. "Ain't nothin' more suspicious than someone with secrets."

"I'm…uh…."

"This got somethin' to do with Sammy Winchester?" asked Bobby, leaning forward. "I saw the look in yer eyes when I mentioned him. You know somethin' I don't, and it's tryin' my patience."

Sam didn't like it, but he knew when he'd been beaten. Bobby was stubborn, and he wasn't bluffing about shooting the younger man. Sam knew he'd do it in a heartbeat, without even blinking. The only way out was through.

"I didn't hurt Sam Winchester," he began slowly, looking up at Bobby to gage his expression. He was met with a blank stare which gave nothing away.

"Keep goin'."

"I didn't hurt him, _but_ ," he paused again, fidgeting uncomfortably. "I know where he is."

"You kidnap him, boy?" growled Bobby. " 'Cuz if ya did, that was a real stupid move on yer part."

"I didn't kidnap him!" Sam said hurriedly. "There's this demon. His name is Crowley. I was fighting him, and he did this spell thing and the two of us sort of…got swapped."

"So this Crowley character has Sam?" said Bobby, eyebrow raised. "And now we've got you?" He shook his head incredulously. "I ain't buyin' it."

Sam sighed heavily. "That's not even the crazy part."

"It ain't?" Bobby said loudly. "Then what is?"

"Uh..." Sam swallowed hard. "Remember when I told you my name was Ash?"

"Huh?" Bobby stared at him. "Don't change the subject, boy!"

"I'm not! Listen, just go along with me on this, okay?"

Bobby crossed his arms. "Fine. Yes, I remember you lyin' 'bout yer name. Why?"

"And then I said my name was Sam?"

"What in the blazes are you on about, idjit?!" exclaimed Bobby angrily. "You gonna get to the point or not?"

"This _is_ my point," insisted Sam. "I didn't want to tell you my name because you'd never believe me. Because _that's_ the crazy part."

"It's crazy that there's more than two Sam's on this planet? It's crazy that the Winchester boy's gone missing and you say you've replaced him? Weird coincidence? Is Sam even yer real name?"

Sam stood, wobbling slightly but trying to get this over with. "Yes, it is," he said. "That's what I've been trying to say!" He took a deep breath.

"My name is Sam Winchester."

* * *

"You ready?"

Sam nodded bravely up at his older brother; in all honesty, he was quite frightened, but he was a hunter. He could do this. He'd go home to Dean, to Dad, and they would not _believe_ the stories he could tell. No way they'd leave him home during hunts anymore; they'd finally see that he, Sam Winchester, was made of the same stuff as them. He could be brave. He could be strong. And he could _definitely_ kill monsters.

He was still struggling with the concept that this scruffy-haired man in front of him was an actual _angel_ , but he'd get it.

Time travel. This was insane.

Hoisting his bag higher up on his shoulder and re-checking to make sure that the gun Dean had given him was still tucked into his belt, Sam smiled up at Dean and Castiel confidently. "Ready," he said.

Cas nodded and made eye contact with Dean. Then his hands came out, two fingers extended on each, and gently touched the brothers on their foreheads.

Sam wasn't sure what he was expecting; loud noises maybe, or flashing lights. Maybe a swirling tunnel of clouds like on that sci-fi show he'd seen once, the one with the British dude. Perhaps lightning like in _Back to the Future_ , minus the Delorean.

He got none of those. Instead, he felt a tug in his gut that lasted less than a second, and with a blink of his eyes, he was somewhere else.

Some _when_ else.

By an empty intersection in, apparently, the middle of nowhere.

"Whoa," he said, inspecting his surroundings critically. "Where are we?"

"Cas?" Sam turned to see that the angel was in a rather unpleasant state. Dean was stopping him from falling over, and it was he who had spoken. "You ok?"

Cas nodded tersely. "I will be all right," he said.

Then he coughed up blood.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Ok, pal, let's get you somewhere safe," he said. "Sammy, give me a hand?"

Sam nodded and rushed to aid them. "Seriously, though," he said as he slung Castiel's arm over his shoulder. "Where are we?"

"Michigan," said the angel weakly, before coughing up more blood.

"Michigan?" said Dean. "Why Michigan?"

"Dad was working a case here before I got swapped," Sam said, brow furrowing as a thought occurred to him. "Hang on…"

"What?" asked Dean exasperatedly.

"I think I recognize this," Sam said slowly. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure this is the same town. So that means there should be a town somewhere…." He looked both ways down the road before deciding on his right. "That way, I think."

"You think."

Sam shrugged. "Hey, you got any others ideas?"

Dean sighed. "I'll take the angel," he said, adjusting his grip on Cas. "You lead the way, compass boy."

Sam shot him a look at the nickname, but did as instructed anyway. With any luck, Dad and Dean would still be in town. With even _more_ luck, they'd not kill Cas and future-Dean on sight.

Yeah. Like that'd ever happen. Dad wasn't the kind of guy who asked questions first.

Maybe he'd at least look before he shot.

* * *

Bobby stared at him. "I'm sorry, _what_?"

Sam looked down at the floor and sighed. "I'm Sam Winchester. The Sam Winchester who went missing a two days ago. That demon, Crowley? He didn't just swap us, he dragged us through time."

"Wait, lemme get this straight," said Bobby skeptically. "You think you _time travelled_?"

"Yeah!" said Sam. "And I'm him….from the…future…." He trailed off near the end. This was insane.

"Look, I know it sounds crazy—"

"Sounds crazy?" Bobby cut in. "It is crazy! Kid, either yer some sorta monster or yer screwed in the head. Either way, I ain't lettin' you outa this room any time soon.

"No, Bobby, wait—" The door swung close with a heavy clang as Bobby ignored his plea. "I can prove it!"

Bobby's heavy footsteps stopped. A moment of agonizing silence followed, before they started up again, in the opposite direction. The metal slide covering the door's small window opened with a scraping noise, and Bobby's wrinkled eyes stared through at him.

"Well, what're you waitin' for, boy?" he said finally. "You say you can prove that yer Sam, then prove it."

"September 8th, 1988," said Sam slowly. "I was five years old. Dad was out hunting a rugaru, and he left me and Dean with you. The day after he left, I caught a bug and was stuck in bed with a fever. Everything I ate just came up again, and I kept switching between chills and burning heat. Dean looked after me, but he was exhausted, so you took over.

"I wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, kept asking for a story, so you told me about the first time you ever hunted a werewolf. I didn't know that it was real at the time, and the way you told it made it sound like it was all fake. I told you that you should be an author, but you just laughed at me. After that I finally fell asleep.

There was silence again. Bobby's gaze didn't waver, his piercing orbs seeming to stare into Sam's soul.

"If I wasn't Sam, how would I know that?" asked the young hunter. "It's me, Bobby. It's actually, really me."

Slowly, the latch clicked, and the door swung open to reveal a stunned Bobby. "How is this possible?" he asked quietly.

Sam laughed. "You wouldn't believe _that_ either."

Bobby merely raised an eyebrow.

"Angels."

Both eyebrows now. " _Angels_?"

"Yup."

"Boy," said Bobby, putting his hands up. "I don't know what you did to deserve it, but you Winchesters have the _strangest_ luck I've ever heard of."

Sam shook his head, grinning. "Bobby, you have _no_ idea."

* * *

Dean was worried. Really, really worried. So far Dad had torn apart the motel room and grilled Dean for answers three times. They had found nothing.

'Nothing' was exactly what _wasn't_ going to find Sammy.

The teenage hunter currently sat shotgun in the parked Impala, staring despondently down the road while Dad questioned the motel staff. He felt helpless; sitting here wasn't going to help bring Sam home any sooner. He wanted to be up and moving, fighting ghosts, killing monsters, doing something, _anything_ at all. Hell, he'd feel better just going out to the nearby convenience store to get some supplies. Sammy would want food when they found him right?

The more he though about it, the better of an idea it sounded. So with a sort of resigned sigh, Dean climbed out of the car.

Inside the motel lobby, Dad was leaning over the counter yelling at a rather terrified-looking college-age receptionist. "How could you not have seen anything?!" he shouted. "Why don't you have cameras?!"

"I…I…." stuttered the receptionist, leaning back slightly. "Sir, if you could just…"

"Dad."

John didn't seem to hear his son, the word drowned out by his own yelling. Dean sighed and knocked on the wall. This, too, was ignored.

"Dad!"

John turned, face set in a hybrid of worry and irritation. "What?" he snapped, the stress making him rather abrupt.

Dean bit his lip and looked down. "I was thinking…maybe Sam would be hungry when he got back, so if I went down the road to get a few snacks…"

"Yes, fine!" said John irritably. "Go! I don't care."

The younger Winchester nodded shortly, before bustling out the door.

The convenience store was nearly empty; then again, that was to be expected at 2:00 on a Wednesday afternoon in the middle of September. The parking lot had but two cars in it: an old Jeep and a battered minivan, the latter complete with an ' _I love my poodle'_ sticker and a pair of dangling air fresheners and the former in a parking space labeled _'Employees only'_. A couple of leather-clad teenagers leaned against the side of the building, smoking cigarettes, their motorbikes propped up against the wall, glaring at him as if daring him to come any closer. A homeless man rooted through the trash further down the alley. And near the front of the building stood two men and a boy. Even as Dean watched, the boy turned and walked into the store and the shorter of the two men slumped against the building tiredly.

Dean couldn't help staring at them as he passed, but they didn't seem to notice him. The taller man was speaking in a voice to low for Dean to here, but from the tone he could guess that he was giving his companion encouragement.

The door-counter dinged as Dean stepped through the entrance. Like the parking lot outside, the cheaply lit innards of the store were nearly devoid of people. Checking his mental list, Dean headed for the canned/boxed goods.

Dean scanned the shelves for Sam's favorites: Four-bean minestrone with mushrooms, white-cheddar mac n' cheese, etc. Eyebrows lowering, he gazed thoughtfully in the general direction of the produce section. Sammy did love his vegetables. Apples, in particular, he seemed to have a taste for. But produce didn't last, so Dean grabbed a package of individual applesauces and added it to the pile in his arms.

Something dropped behind him, the noise accompanied by the sound of someone gasping. Dean whirled, in turn dropping a crate of sugar cookies on the floor with the motion. His eyes widened, and the rest of his load followed the cookies.

" _Sam?_ "


	9. Face in the Mirror

**_Ok, some notes about the editing and the placement of this story in the Supernatural timeline. Previously I had mentioned that Dean still had his necklace; I did this without any thought and forgetting that he'd tossed it._**

 ** _So then, today, I realized that and just figured I'd place this story after 5x10, 'Abandon All Hope'. That way he still had the necklace, problem solved._**

 ** _Then I realized that I'd had Dean tell little Sam that he was going to meet Mary. And that didn't happen until 5x16._**

 ** _So I went back and just edited the necklace out of the previous storyline. Now this story is situated in a bit of an AU for 5x20, when the boys confront Crowley about the Colt and he tips them off about Pestilence's whereabouts. Just keep this in mind for further reading; it's not all that important, honestly._**

 ** _Also, I'm changing the title of this story from 'Winds of Time' to 'Wings of Time' because, you know, angels. Probably gonna change the synopsis too, because it kinda sucks._**

 ** _On another note, I am officially all caught-up with the show. I will not spoil anything but HOLY CRAP THE SEASON 10 FINALE. I know we've had cliffies before, but I'm pretty sure this takes the cake. Like, seriously. I'm in pain. I NEED season 11. NOW. GAAAAAAH! *claws eyes out*_**

 ** _Me: Doctor, take me to the future and show me s11._**

 ** _Me: ..._**

 ** _Cas: He left._**

 ** _Me: WWWWWWHYYYYYYYYYYYY?!_**

 ** _Cas: *clears throat*_**

 ** _Cas: *shifts feet*_**

 ** _Cas: He said something about saving the world._**

 ** _Me: THE WORLD CAN WAIT._**

 ** _Cas: Would you like me to say the disclaimer for this story?_**

 ** _Me: *cries in a corner*_**

 ** _Cas: O-okay. Um...Bianca Valdez does not and has not ever owned 'Supernatural'._**

 ** _Sam: *enters room, sees me* I'll, uh...I'll go get um...bye._**

 ** _Me: Sammy, bring me some ice cream, it'll make me feel better._**

 ** _Cas: I'll get it. *disappears*_**

 ** _Sam: *looks at me* Oh, crap._**

* * *

 **Then**

 _"_ _You think you time travelled?"_

 _"_ _Yeah!" said Sam. "And I'm him….from the…future….It's me, Bobby. It's actually, really me."_

 _"_ _I don't know what you did to deserve it, but you Winchesters have the strangest luck I've ever heard of."_

 _Sam shook his head, grinning. "Bobby, you have no idea."_

 _"_ _I was thinking…maybe Sam would be hungry when he got back, so if I went down the road to get a few snacks…"_

 _"_ _Yes, fine!" said John irritably. "Go! I don't care."_

 _The convenience store was nearly empty; then again, that was to be expected at 2:00 on a Wednesday afternoon in the middle of September. Near the front of the building stood two men and a boy. Even as Dean watched, the boy turned and walked into the store and the shorter of the two men slumped against the building tiredly._

 _Something dropped behind him, the noise accompanied by the sound of someone gasping. Dean whirled, in turn dropping a crate of sugar cookies on the floor with the motion. His eyes widened, and the rest of his load followed the cookies._

 _"_ _Sam?"_

 **Now**

Cas didn't look so good.

Dean worriedly expected his angel as he leaned against the wall. His eyes were a bit too dull for Dean's liking, and he kept coughing violently. Occasionally the hacking would bring up blood, the scarlet substance a reminder that, although quite durable, angels were not completely invincible.

"You okay there?" asked Dean, trying to get Cas to hold his gaze. It worked briefly, the blue orbs swinging up to meet his as he grunted out an affirmative before swinging back towards the ground as if too weary to stay fixed on him.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, sure you are," said Dean, rolling his eyes. Frustrated, he shot a glance in the direction of the store's entrance; what was taking Sam so long?

Switching his gaze back at Cas, he mentally debated his choices before coming to a decision. "Cas, I'm going to go check on Sammy. Will you be all right?"

Cas nodded tiredly. "Dean, I already told you, I'm fine." The last word was followed up by a violent bout of coughing, which in turn heralded a splatter of blood on his hand.

"Uh-huh," Dean said. "Sit down and try not to hurt yourself. I'll be right back. _Don't move_."

Cas nodded again, and Dean cautiously let go of him. He didn't immediately fall over, so Dean took that as a green flag and turned towards the sliding glass doors of the convenience store.

"Sam?" he called in a low voice, scanning the entranceway. So far it was devoid of little brothers, so he decided to go in deeper.

With his usually slightly bowlegged stride, Dean headed for the checkout counter. "Can I help you, sir?" asked the clerk in a monotone, as if reciting from a teleprompter.

"Uh, yeah, I think so," said Dean. "There was a kid who walked in here a few minutes ago. Do you know which aisle he went down?"

The clerk raised an eyebrow. "Got tired waiting?" he asked, and Dean didn't deign to reply. The clerk sighed heavily. "You know, most people just look down all the aisles. There's only the three."

Dean raised a pointed eyebrow. "Just tell me which one."

An eyeroll. "You tell me which one first."

"What?"

"Which kid," expanded the clerk. "There were two of 'em."

"Two?" How had he missed a second kid walking into the store? Unless he'd come in _before_ Sam did. "Uh…about yeah high, brown hair, looks like he needs to be eating more real food."

The clerk stared at him for a moment. "Dude, I don't stare that hard at my customers. But I think I saw both of them go down that aisle there." He pointed. "Non-perishables."

"Thanks," said Dean somewhat sardonically before turning and walking the indicated direction.

It was at that moment that he heard a crash, as if something or many somethings had fallen to the ground. This was accompanied by an intake of breath, and a muffled word that he couldn't quite make out.

"Sam?" he called in a low voice, slowing his step and unconsciously reaching for his gun. Taking a deep breath he whipped around the corner to find himself face to face with two people he knew very well.

One was Sam, facing away from him, back rigid and boxes of supplies at his feet. The other was taller, older, scruffier, an expression of surprise and joy on his face.

Then identical green eyes met, and the countenance hardened. A hand grabbed Sam and shoved him back, the other one reaching for a knife tucked into the belt.

And all Dean could was stare at the boy who was his younger self.

* * *

"So what's our next move?"

Sam shook his head and took the beer that Bobby offered him. "I don't know," he said, twisting the top off and taking a sip. "I mean, instinct tells me to go to Dad, but, well…I already ran into him and he almost killed me. Bobby, I just….I have no idea what to do next."

Bobby sighed and plopped down across the table from him. "You boys," he said. "Alrighty then. Well, you got some thing to explain to me, in any case."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Like what?"

"Like why the hell those demons were so hell-bent on getting to you. I've never seen anythin' like it."

"Right." Sam looked out the window at the auto salvage yard. This was an entire seventeen years into his past, and the house, the yard, it all looked the same. Bobby was a bit younger and a little less gray, but still wore the same clothes, still spoke the same, still acted his same surly self. It was eerie.

"Well, ok, so there's a whole bunch of crap that happens in the future," he said, looking back at his surrogate father. "I'm not sure how much it's safe for you to know, but a lot of people die, and a lot of them are because of me. And…I've got this 'fate' thing that apparently got decided for me."

Bobby stared at him. "Boy, I think we're pretty much royally screwed where timelines are concerned," he said gruffly. "Ya gonna tell me what the actual reason is, or what?"

Sam smiled a bit. Then his expression dropped to something more serious as he thought out his next words. "There's something in me," he said. "Something dark. Demon blood."

"Demon blood?!" exploded Bobby incredulously.

"Bobby, please just let me finish," said Sam, looking at the older hunter pleadingly. "You know the reason Dad hunts? The thing that killed Mom? Well, we found it and we killed it, but not before it got to us. Actually, it's already gotten to this time's me. The thing that ruined my—his—life then and will ruin it again in his future, it's a demon. And that same night that everything fell apart, it fed me some of its blood. It made me stronger, gave me psychic powers. I'd get these visions, and they'd come true, and sometimes I could stop them from happening but sometimes I was just too late. This demon, Azazel, it wanted me and other children like me to lead an army of demons. And I refused, and, well…" he trailed off, not willing to say the next thing that happened, because the next thing was his death and Dean's subsequent demon-deal, and Sam just didn't want Bobby to know that yet. Bobby already knew too much.

With a small lift of his shoulders, he smiled sadly up at the man. "I guess these demons can sense the demon blood in me, and maybe they can tell that I don't belong in this time."

Bobby stared at him. "For God's sake, boy," he said finally. "Demon blood? Really?"

Sam shrugged helplessly. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

Bobby crossed his arms. "Are ya sure that's it, though?" he asked warily. "You're not keeping anything from me, are ya?"

"No, Bobby," said Sam with a shake of his head, but he was lying. Really, there was no reason not to tell him, but he honestly just couldn't handle it. It was too current. Too real. If he'd been reluctant to talk about the demon blood, resistant to the idea of Bobby knowing that he'd come back from the dead like one of the things they hunted, then he sure as hell didn't want him to know about how much of a monster Sam really was.

Bobby couldn't know about Sam's dance with the Devil. Not yet.

* * *

It was Sammy. Sammy standing there with his mouth open and gaping like a fish, Sammy standing right in front of him safe and sound and _alive_.

For an awful moment, Dean was frozen in shock. He wanted to run to his brother and hold him tight and demand to know what had happened, Sammy, where have you _been_ , but he couldn't move. He couldn't speak. The world stopped as the two brothers stared silently at each other.

Then the moment was shattered as a complete stranger came around the corner, saying Sammy's name and fingering a gun. And Dean didn't care if he was human or monster, if this was the man who had kidnapped _his_ Sam then Dean would kill him without a second thought.

It took him less than a second to get Sam behind him and to brandish his knife. It took him a second more to get his emotions under control; the relief had been replaced so quickly by the white-hot rage that he was sent briefly spinning out of control. But Dad had taught him to keep a cool head at all times, and he'd be damned if he'd forget that now when Sam needed him most.

"Drop the gun," he said in his lowest and most intimidating voice. The man's eyes had widened upon seeing Dean, and his face as paled as if he had seen a ghost (metaphorically, of course.)

"Crap," said the man.

" _Drop it!"_

" _Crap_ ," said the man, and he set the gun gently on the ground.

"Now kick it over here," demanded Dean, and the man complied, his gaze not wavering for a moment in a way that felt strangely familiar. His stance, too, resounded oddly with Dean as if he'd seen it before. Felt it before.

Then it hit him. That was _his_ stance.

Ok, weird coincidence. Not weird enough to distract him, though. He was too well-trained.

Slowly, without taking his eyes off of the stranger, Dean stooped down and grabbed the gun. Carefully, he loaded it and held it close to his side.

"We're going to go outside, you first. You're not going to run and you're not going to say anything to the clerk. We're all going to go into that alleyway out back, and then you're going to tell me who the hell you are and why you took my brother. If you try anything, I'll shoot you. Got it?"

"Look, man, I think there's been a misunderstanding—"

" _Got it_?"

The man closed his mouth and slowly nodded.

"Sam, stay close," said Dean quietly to his brother. Sammy looked at him, brow furrowed.

"Dean, I think you should—"

"Shut up and follow me."

The trio moved cautiously through the store, past a somewhat-bewildered clerk, and into the chill air outside. The trench-coat clad man was still in the same place, though he had seated himself on the ground and was now leaning his head against the building behind him, eyes closed. They opened, however, when he seemed to sense their movement.

"D—" Trench-Coat started to say, before his eerily blue eyes landed on Dean and he cut himself off. He seemed to take in the entire situation in a single moment, indicating that he was a warrior.

Dammit. Two grown men against him and Sammy? Dean didn't like those odds.

"Alleyway. Now," demanded Dean, determined not to show that he was uncomfortable with the way this was playing out. "You too, Trench-Coat."

Trench-Coat cocked his head. A brief staring contest followed, and the guy didn't seem to blink, like, _at all_. Dean was beginning to wonder whether the man was even human, and if he should shoot him or not, when Trench-Coat finally broke eye contact with a very deliberate blink and a slight incline of the head. With that, the strange group moved into the alleyway. The biker teens from earlier had left, and the homeless man had fallen asleep, so the quartet was now essentially alone.

"Dean, it's ok, they're friends!" begged Sam, trying to edge around his brother. Dean wasn't having it.

" _Sure_ they're friends," he growled. "They kidnapped you, Sammy. You two," he cocked the gun and pointed it at the strangers. "Explain."

Scruffy exchanged a look with Trench-Coat, a question in his glance. Dean watched, arms crossed, as Trench-Coat nodded slowly.

"Ok, you're not going to believe this, but Sam here can back me up," said Scruffy, hands out placatingly. "I'm you, from the future."

Dean stared at him.

And stared.

And stared.

"Y-you're joking, right?" he asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

Scruffy rolled his eyes. "No," he said coolly.

Dean scanned Scruffy's face for signs of laughter and found none. Then he checked Trench-Coat and got a blank stare in return. Then again, that seemed to be Trench-Coat's token expression, so he turned slightly peer at Sam, certain that his brother would be bubbling with poorly contained laughter.

Nothing. Sam's eyes gazed up at him with the utmost sincerity, and Dean knew that look. That was the look that asked him to believe, and the dreaded puppy eyes were on full force.

"What. The. Hell," said Dean. "Sam, are you buying this? Me from the _future_?" He shook his head with a practiced-eyeroll, and he couldn't deny that it was the same eyeroll as Scruffy's motion moments ago. He ignored that fact with the ease of someone skilled in the art of ignoring things they didn't like. "And who are you supposed to be?" he asked, nodding at Trench-Coat. "Lost-lost cousin?"

"My name is Castiel," spoke up Trench-Coat (or Castiel, which was by far the oddest name Dean had ever heard) for the first time. His voice was low and gravelly, and, much like his face, was all but emotionless. "I am an a—"

Scruffy reached out and put a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "Ok, Cas, let's not dump everything on him…me," he said with a small chuckle. "Let's just get the whole time-travel thing across first."

" _Time travel_?" Dean sneered. "Seriously?" Shaking his head, he grabbed Sammy and scooted past the delusional pair and out of the alley. "Ok, Sammy, we're leaving. If you _ever_ come near us again," his voice took on a darker tone. "I'll kill you."

"Dean—" started Sam, but Dean ignored him. "Dean, wait! They're—"

"We're _leaving_ , Sam," said Dean with finality. "Shut up and move your rear."

Instead of doing as he was told, Sam did the exact opposite. He planted his feet on the ground and crossed his arms stubbornly, face set in the classic Sam Winchester-pout. "No! Dean, just _listen_ to them! A demon named Crowley switched me and future me, and now he's here and they're here and we have to get him back to them and that time so things can go back to normal!"

It took a moment for Dean to sort through the rush of words that had just erupted from his brother's mouth, but as soon as he figured out what was said he set his jaw and crossed his arms and _glared_. "That's _insane_ , Sam!" A thought occurred to him and his tone became more worried. "What did they do to you?" Rounding on Scruffy and Castiel, he repeated the question. "What did you do?!"

"I brought him back, that's what," said Scruffy. "There's nothing wrong with him. There's nothing wrong with me, either. I'm actually you." His words were cocky, sarcastic, and everything that was Dean. Either this guy had really done his homework, or…

Or he was telling the truth.

"Prove it."

Scruffy crossed his arms and gazed intently at Dean. Before he could answer, however, Sam butt in.

"Dean, he knows about the Christmas."

Dean turned on his brother. "What?"

"You know, _the_ Christmas. The one where you told me about…" the eyes were on again, and it almost seemed like they'd been turned up a notch, if that was possible.

"Fine," said Dean. "Say you're me. Say you know about that Christmas because you were there. Show it to me."

Scruffy raised that damn eyebrow again. " 'Scuse me?"

"You know. The necklace."

Something passed across Scruffy's eyes, something that looked like regret. "I don't…" he choked on his words and looked down. "I don't have it anymore."

"Yeah," snorted Dean. "Of _course_ you don't have it. What'd ya do, _lose_ it?" With a dark chuckle, he grabbed Sammy again. "We're leaving."

But Sam's feet were _still_ glued to the ground, a look of betrayal on his eyes. His gaze wasn't for Dean, though; it was for Scruffy.

"You don't have it?" he asked pitifully. "Did…did someone steal it?"

Scruffy sighed, refusing to look at Sam's face. "I, uh...I threw it away."

"You….what?"

"It's complicated."

Sam looked like he wanted to say more, but Dean broke in with a snarl. "If you were me, you'd never let it out of your sight. Cover blown, moron. Get out of here before I shoot you."

"We don't have time for this," Castiel said with a sigh. Faster than Dean had seen him move as of yet, he reached forward towards Dean's forehead. Dean flinched away, but not before the stranger's fingers made contact with his skin and his head was suddenly awash with images.

Dean stumbled away. Memories flashed before his eyes, voices and faces and thoughts that weren't his, couldn't be his. He saw the Impala roaring down road after road, rumbling into town after town carrying its load to save people. He saw demons, with black eyes and red eyes and yellow eyes. He saw Castiel standing in a barn, blue eyes glowing and the shadows of two great wings on the walls behind him. He saw Uncle Bobby and Dad, and others he didn't recognize; a woman with a stern face and kind eyes, a fierce girl with blonde hair and young features. He saw his own face, steadily aging, Sammy's beside it, until he grew to resemble the man before him and Sam grew to resemble…..Ash.

He saw lives and deaths and love and hatred, and he knew that these men before him were telling the truth. This man, eyes full of loss and pain, this man who had seen so much, this was Dean.

And Dean would become this man.


	10. The Road So Far

_**Ok, so this one took a while, but I wrote it and decided I**_ ** _didn't like it, so I just sort of stared at it for three days. Then I consulted a friend and so I rewrote it, which is ALWAYS fun. Ugh. Anyway, it's written now. Hopefully you enjoy it._**

 ** _Also, these chapter titles are brutal. I cannot for the life of me come up with good ones._**

 ** _Me: Dean._**

 ** _Dean: What?_**

 ** _Me: You're the only one who hasn't done it yet._**

 ** _Dean: No._**

 ** _Me: Yes._**

 ** _Dean: No._**

 ** _Me: I will egg your car._**

 ** _Dean: You wouldn't dare._**

 ** _Me: You BET I would._**

 ** _Dean: ..._**

 ** _Dean: ..._**

 ** _Dean: Fine. Bianca Valdez does not own me or Sam or Cas or any of this story, although apparently she's trying her damndest. She does, however, own eggs, and if she touches my baby, I'll kill her._**

 ** _Me: Oooookay, then..._**

* * *

 **Then**

 _"_ _Apparently his dad's gone and lost him, too. Idjit called in a panic last night."_

 _"_ _I'm him….from the…future….It's me, Bobby. It's actually, really me."_

 _"_ _I don't know what you did to deserve it, but you Winchesters have the strangest luck I've ever heard of. So what's our next move?"_

 _"_ _Instinct tells me to go to Dad, but, well…I already ran into him and he almost killed me. Bobby, I have no idea what to do next."_

 _"_ _Explain."_

 _"_ _Ok, you're not going to believe this, but Sam here can back me up," said Scruffy, hands out placatingly. "I'm you, from the future."_

 _"_ _That's insane. We're leaving, Sam."_

 _"_ _No! Dean, just listen to them! A demon named Crowley switched me and future me, and now he's here and they're here and we have to get him back to them and that time so things can go back to normal!"_

 _"_ _We don't have time for this," Castiel said. The stranger's fingers made contact with his skin and Dean's head was suddenly awash with images._

 _He saw his own face, steadily aging, Sammy's beside it, until he grew to resemble the man before him and Sam grew to resemble…Ash._

 _He saw lives and deaths and love and hatred, and he knew that these men before him were telling the truth. This man, eyes full of loss and pain, this man who had seen so much, this was Dean._

 _And Dean would become this man._

 **Now**

Sam wasn't sure what Castiel had done, but Dean didn't look so good. He'd dropped the gun, the metal clanking against the pavement loudly. His eyes widened and his breathing stopped, and for a moment Sam thought he was dying. Frightened, he rushed forward and grabbed hold of Dean, trying to shake him out of it, but the moment had already passed. Dean began to breath heavily, and he collapsed on top of Sam.

"Dean! Dean, are you okay?"

Dean didn't answer, instead gazing wide-eyed at his older self. "Y-you're me? H-how?"

And then he collapsed.

Sam turned towards Castiel, panicky. "What did you do?" he asked, his voice frantic.

Castiel didn't look so good either. He'd slumped against the wall, his eyes closed, but they opened again when Sam spoke. "I showed him his future," he said tiredly. "With my grace in its current state, it was messier than I would have liked. He will be fine in a little while. "

The elder Dean (Sam decided to think of him as Future-Dean from now on) stared at his younger self with a mixture of fascination and horror. "Cas, was that really necessary?"

"The longer we stay here the more my powers are drained," said the angel. "It is essential we find our time's Sam as soon as possible."

In Sam's arms, Dean let out a low moan, eyelids twitching. A smile spread across Sam's face as the familiar green eyes blinked open to look at him.

"Hi, Dean."

Dean stared at him for several seconds, before he violently rolled himself out of Sam's arms. "Dude, let go of me. I feel like a freakin' girl."

Sam watched, amused, as his brother tried and failed to get himself onto his feet. Stumbling to the ground a second time, he shot a glare Sam's way, and Sam tried to wipe the grin from his lips.

He didn't quite manage it.

"Sure, laugh it off, b****."

"Ya need help there, jerk?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'll get it." A groan of exertion accompanied a successful attempt at balancing himself, and Sam rose with him.

"Well then." Dean was looking at Future-Dean incredulously. "This is, by far, the weirdest thing that has happened to me."

Future-Dean grinned. "Trust me, pal, it gets weirder."

* * *

Bobby Singer was a man of many talents. These talents included lore-finding, monster-killing, and the ability to out-drink even the toughest redneck.

These talents did _not,_ however, include cooking.

It'd been a while since Sam had eaten anything that the old hunter had made. As soon as he figured out how to cook for himself, and how to get Bobby to let him at the stove, he'd taken the reins, and both Bobby and Dean had seemed pretty happy about it. Sam had thought his days of bad cooking were over (except for when Dean got adventurous. The man could cook a pretty damn good burger, but give him an egg and a frying pan and he'll serve scrambled eggs, extra crispy. Sam hadn't previously known that latter option existed), but in Bobby's words, "Boy, you got a busted arm, a bruised windpipe, and a possibly concussed melon. Yer not goin' anywhere near the knives," and that was that.

Sam had sat obediently at the table, anxiously awaiting whatever monstrosity his surrogate father had managed to cook up. Luckily, he was greeted with a sandwich. It was downright impossible to screw up a sandwich, right?

He soon found out that he was very wrong.

Bobby was watching him, eyes smiling. "It any good?" he asked eagerly.

Sam faked a smile and swallowed a bite of stale-breaded, over-mayonnaise-d, too-salty (who puts salt on sandwiches?) sandwich. "It's great, Bobby, thanks," he said, voice somewhat strained.

Bobby grinned. "Well, I'll leave you to it, then." With a groan he stood, stretching out his back and mumbling something about getting old. "I'll go into town and grab you some painkillers. While you're eating you can take a look at these. See if you can find anything on time travel." He dropped a pile of lore books in front of Sam, along with a piece of paper with his number scribbled on it. "Call me if you need something."

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched upwards again and he watched Bobby leave the room. As soon as he was gone, however, the younger hunter stood and tucked the sandwich into the depths of the trashcan. Then, guiltily peering out the window every few seconds, he quickly prepared himself a new one and sat back down.

It was at that moment that the phone rang.

Not the FBI phone, or the CDC phone. Not Homeland Security. Not the Fish and Wildlife Service. The phone that rang was the one that very few people had the number for: Bobby's personal line.

Sam stared at it for several moments as it vibrated in its plastic holster. Then, warily, he reached forward with his one good arm and picked it up.

 _"_ _Bobby, it's me. I need your help. I still haven't found Sam."_ The voice was gruff, tense, and urgent. It was a voice that Sam new almost as well as his own, second only to Dean's voice.

It was the voice of John Winchester.

" _Bobby?"_ said John. _"You still there?_ "

Heart beating fiercely, Sam slammed the phone down, effectively hanging up on his father.

It rang again, and Sam just watched it go. Should he answer it? Should he wait for Bobby?

It stopped ringing and Sam stared at it some more. Then, picking it up as gingerly as if it were a bomb, he called Bobby.

" _Sam? That you?"_

"Yeah, Bobby, it's me. Where are you?"

" _On my way inta town. Why? Ya need somethin'?"_

"It's my dad."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. Then, incredulously, " _What?"_

"He called about younger me."

 _"_ _Balls."_

Sam sighed and fidgeted with the straps on his sling, adjusting his right arm so that it was more comfortable. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

 _"_ _And ya know this because ya answered the phone?"_

Sam nodded, though he knew that, of course, Bobby couldn't see him. "I didn't say anything. Hung up right away, but he called back. In fact," he said as he heard a dial tone in his ear. "He's trying to call again."

 _"_ _Balls!_ " said Bobby again.

"So what do I do?"

" _Hang tight, I'm comin'. Don't answer the phone."_

"Right. Thanks, Bobby."

A click and the line went dead. Sam sighed again, then jumped when the phone started to ring in his hand. "Son of a—" he slammed it back into its holster and sat back down.

"Why is my life so complicated?" he wondered aloud as the phone began to ring again.

* * *

"Dammit!" John slammed his phone down as, once again, no one picked up. "I need your help, Bobby!"

Jaw set in anger, he turned out to the parking lot and stared at his car. He'd finished grilling the motel clerk several moments ago; the young man knew nothing. Sam was just….gone.

He should be out there looking for him. He should be driving all around, torturing every damn monster he could get his hands on until he found his son. But here he was, just sitting here, because Dean had decided that _now_ was the time to go shopping.

John knew that he shouldn't be angry at Dean. His eldest was just keeping himself occupied. John understood the need to be out there doing something, _anything_ , even if it was completely pointless, just to ward off the helplessness. Dean in particular struggled with this sort of thing, especially where Sam was concerned. Watching the way his sons interacted with each other, John knew that Mary would have been proud. Hell, she was probably watching everything for all he knew.

If he was honest with himself, John knew that it wasn't even Dean he was angry at. He was just… _angry_. He was always angry. He missed his wife with a burning ache, and the search for the thing that got her seemed endless. He didn't even know what it was.

His boys were the only thing that kept him sane, and now Sammy was missing.

* * *

There was only one other time that such a surreal situation had occurred, and that had been when he'd gone to the future and seen himself as a war-hardened leader. But for Dean, this came as a close second.

"Ok, so how the _hell_ are we going to find Sam?" Dean asked. Then he glanced at his brother's ten-year-old self. "Not you. You know what, from now on, you're Sammy, my version is Sam. Gotcha?"

Sammy raised his eyebrows. "Um….ok?"

Cas cocked his head thoughtfully and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Past-Dean butted in. "I know where Sam is."

Dean stared at him. "What?"

"Or I know where he was. So this spell switched them, right? The memories Cas here showed me. They had Sam in it. And the Sam in the memories was the guy who showed up in my room earlier, calling himself Ash and saying he'd been swapped with my Sammy."

"And you didn't think to mention this sooner?"

Past-Dean glared. "I didn't realize, ok? Jesus, when do I get to be so much of a jerk?"

Sammy raised a hand, eyes laughing. "Uh, Dean, you're already that much of a jerk."

"Shut up."

"Both of you shut up," said Dean (the elder). "Me, what happened after Sam showed up?"

Past-Dean flashed a grin. "Well…."

Dean knew that grin. That was the 'I-did-something-wrong-but-I-don't-want-to-admit-it' grin. "What did you do?"

"Look, some random dude shows up in my warded-against-everything motel room saying that a demon switched him with my brother. I mean…what was I supposed to do?"

What would he do in that situation? The realization washed over Dean with a sudden chill. "You called Dad, didn't you."

Past-Dean shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but his face was the picture of guilty apprehension. "Yeah."

"Awesome."

Cas looked confused. "How is that—"

Dean raised an eyebrow and the angel closed his mouth. "Sarcasm?" he asked carefully.

The hunter didn't even deign to grace that with a reply. You'd think that by this point, Cas would have picked up on this kind of thing. But no, he was as clueless as ever.

Sammy was staring at Past-Dean, eyes wide. "You called _Dad_?" he asked, voice fearful.

Past-Dean avoided his younger brother's gaze.

Dean rubbed his forehead. "And I assume he kicked my Sam out?"

"Well…after he slammed him into the wall and threatened to kill him."

" _Awesome_ ," repeated Dean. "Really, just _awesome_."

"I could search the area for him," said Cas stonily. "It would take a while and I would be drained, but—"

Dean shook his head adamantly. "No, Cas. You aren't zapping anywhere in this condition. You're angel mojo's zonked as it is. We are hotwiring a car and driving."

Cas nodded, conceding the point before offering up another idea. "Where would Sam go in a situation like this?"

"There's never been a situation like this before."

The angel glared at him. "Dean…"

"Why don't we ask our resident Sam expert?"

All eyes turned to Sammy, who looked thoughtful. "Well, I'd go to Dad first…"

"That's not helpful, Sammy," said Past-Dean.

"Shut _up_. I wasn't done. _But_ , if I couldn't get to Dad for some reason, I guess I'd go to Uncle Bobby's."

Dean grinned. "All right. Bobby's it is then. First thing's first though." He turned his gaze on the younger half of the group. "Me. Can you make it back to your motel all right?"

Past-Dean's eyebrows flew up. "What?!" he asked. "Why the hell would I go back to the motel?!"

"One, Dad's gonna freak out if you just disappear on him," said Dean. "Two, I ain't puttin' you in danger. I don't want you to die now and stop my—our—entire future." Past-Dean opened his mouth in protest, but Dean stopped him. "Three. I think you'll agree with me on this one, and I think you already know what it is."

Past-Dean's eyes slid towards his brother, and Sammy's own hazel orbs swung up to meet them.

"Three is Sammy. More important than Dad, more important than us, we keep Sammy safe, right?"

Past-Dean nodded slowly.

"So you take him back to the motel. You tell Dad whatever crappy story you can come up with, and you forget this ever happened. Got it?"

This nod was short and grumpy, the acquiescence of someone who was stubborn and did not like to concede a point. But it was acceptance, and Dean seized it gladly.

"You want a ride?"

It was Sammy who answered. "You could drop us off just down the road from the motel. That way Dad wouldn't see you."

"Sounds like a plan." Dean clapped his hands together and grinned at them all. "I'll be right back. Lemme go steal a car."


	11. We Are The Poisoned Youth

**_I can explain. No really, I can._**

 ** _I have been at all-day camps for the last two weeks. Also, I do most of my writing at night, and my dad has banned me from using my laptop in bed._**

 ** _Yay._**

 ** _Anyway, that's an adequate excuse, right?_**

 ** _Well, I did write you guys a chapter. The title for it is a line from Fall Out Boy's Centuries, which you should imagine playing over the last part of this chapter._**

 ** _About the last part...it is, by far, the darkest thing in this story yet. And boy, did it feel good to write. Does that make me a bad person?_**

 ** _Me: Crowley, love, it's you again._**

 ** _Crowley: Really?_**

 ** _Me: Yes._**

 ** _Crowley: No._**

 ** _Me: YES._**

 ** _Crowley: ..._**

 ** _Me: Fine. Different Crowley, then._**

 ** _Crowley: There is only one Crowley._**

 ** _Me: Nope._**

 ** _Me: I'll ease us into the other Crowley, though. Let's bring in his buddy._**

 ** _Me: Aziraphale!_**

 ** _Aziraphale: Hello, dear. Can I help you?_**

 ** _Crowley: Who's that?_**

 ** _Aziraphale: I'm an angel. It's odd, you remind me of a friend of mine._**

 ** _Me: He's from 'Good Omens' by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Best book EVER, by the way._**

 ** _Aziraphale: I'm sorry...I'm a book?_**

 ** _Me: Hush now and the say the disclaimer, would you?_**

 ** _Aziraphale: Certainly. Bianca Valdez does not own...what's it?_**

 ** _Me: Supernatural. And you'd better add the song and your book too._**

 ** _Aziraphale: Bianca Valdez does not own Supernatural, Good Omens, or Centuries. Now, may I return to my book shop? Crowley and I were about to do lunch at the Ritz._**

 ** _Me: Of course. SPN people? THAT is how you do it._**

* * *

 **Then**

 _It was at that moment that the phone rang._

 _"_ _Bobby, it's me. I need your help. I still haven't found Sam."_

 _It was the voice of John Winchester._

 _"_ _Bobby?" said John. "You still there?"_

 _Heart beating fiercely, Sam slammed the phone down, effectively hanging up on his father._

 _"_ _Sam? That you?"_

 _"_ _Yeah, Bobby, it's me. Where are you?"_

 _"_ _On my way inta town. Why? Ya need somethin'?"_

 _"_ _It's my dad. He called about younger me."_

 _"_ _Hang tight, I'm comin'. Don't answer the phone."_

 _"_ _Right. Thanks, Bobby."_

 _A click and the line went dead. Sam sighed again, then jumped when the phone started to ring in his hand. "Son of a—" he slammed it back into its holster and sat back down._

 _"_ _You called Dad?"_

 _Past-Dean avoided his younger brother's gaze._

 _Dean rubbed his forehead. "And I assume he kicked my Sam out?"_

 _"_ _Well…after he slammed him into the wall and threatened to kill him."_

 _"_ _Awesome," repeated Dean. "Really, just awesome."_

 _"_ _Where would Sam go in a situation like this?"_

 _"_ _Why don't we ask our resident Sam expert?"_

 _"_ _Well, I'd go to Dad first. But, if I couldn't get to Dad for some reason, I guess I'd go to Uncle Bobby's."_

 _All right. Bobby's it is then. First thing's first though. You take Sammy back to the motel. You tell Dad whatever crappy story you can come up with, and you forget this ever happened. Got it?"_

 **Now**

The scenery flashed by in a blur, the road stretching ahead and behind beneath the darkening sky.

Dean missed his baby.

He'd taken the clerk's car, which he felt only mildly bad about. He sure wasn't taking the minivan.

Taking his right hand off of the steering wheel, Dean flicked on the radio. As a rock song began to blast through the car's speakers, Dean closed his eyes for a brief moment and imagined that he was in the Impala, her leathery smell surrounding him, the purr of her engine filling him with pleasure, Sam beside him poring over the papers for a case.

The illusion was so real that he had to glance to his left to check if his brother was really there.

He was rewarded with the sight of Cas, slumped awkwardly against the window, looking very unhappy.

Dean turned down the radio.

"Hey, you okay? Do we need to find a motel?"

Cas shook his head drowsily. "I'll be fine. We should find—" he was cut off by a series of hacking, wet-sounding coughs. Blood dribbled down his chin, and his blue eyes looked frighteningly dull.

"—Find Sam," he finished weakly.

Then his eyes rolled back and his head hit the window.

"Awesome." Dean swung the car brutally off the next exit. "We're stopping, I don't care what you say."

The angel was unconscious, and thus Dean received no reply.

* * *

They'd appeared on the road in front of him.

He'd been staring into the distance, eyes unfocused, forehead knotted in an all to familiar combination of stress, worry, and frustration, when he'd seen his boys walking towards him, hands in their pockets, for all the world looking as if they were merely on a casual stroll.

At first he thought he was imagining them. Then they saw him and the smaller of the two figures broke into a run.

John had realized that no, he was not imagining it, that was his Sam and he was back and _all right_.

And John had run to meet him. The happy cry— _Dad!_ —had filled him with unspeakable joy, and he'd swung grabbed his son and lifted him up and squeezed him close.

He hadn't done that in years.

Dean had stood off to the side, a silly smile on his face. John had looked up, eyes shining, and had pulled his eldest towards him. He'd wrapped his arms around his boys and had never wanted to let them go.

Now he sat on his bed, cleaning his weapons. In the boys' shared bed beside him, Sammy slept peacefully. Dean sat in the kitchenette eating a sandwich, a happy look of his face.

John had tried to ask Sam what had happened, but the poor kid was exhausted. After the sixth yawn and the third time repeating his slurred words ("What?" "Uhthuthuh…"), John had given up and put him down to bed.

Then he'd turned to Dean, who'd said he'd simply found Sammy in the convenience store, buying food for himself.

John had to admit that he was proud his son was self-sufficient enough at age ten to gather supplies.

He was also sad that they'd had to grow up so quickly.

John looked down at the phone in his hands. He should call Singer and tell him he needn't worry anymore; Sam was back where he belonged, safe and sound with his family.

Then he remembered the failed calls from earlier and his heart rose in his throat. What if something had happened to the old geezer?

John punched in the number and waited anxiously as it rang in his ear. Dean watched him curiously, still munching on the sandwich.

 _Ring._

 _Ring._

 _Ring._

 _Click!_

" _Yeah?"_

A wave of relief washed over John as he heard the familiar gruff tones. "Bobby," he said. "It's me, John."

At the table, Dean sat up straight and stared at him, sandwich hanging forgotten in his hand. John raised an eyebrow at him and he slowly began to eat again.

There was a moment of extended silence on the line. Then, " _I haven't found yer kid, if that's what yer wondering."_

John smiled and glanced at the sleeping Sam. "That's actually why I called. Dean found him wandering around by himself in a convenience store."

 _"_ _By himself?_ "

John's brow furrowed confusedly at the question. "Out of all the things to ask, that's what you go with?"

Bobby was quiet.

"Bobby?"

" _Yeah, I'm here."_

"What was that about earlier?"

" _What?"_

Dean was watching him again, so John stood, covering the speaker with his hand momentarily. "Eat your food," he said, and walked outside.

"You picked up earlier but didn't say anything. And then you wouldn't answer. Did something happen?"

Bobby cleared his throat on the other end. _"There's somethin' wrong with the answer machine,"_ he said. _"Damn thing keeps pickin' up the call on it's own."_

John frowned. That sounded awfully suspicious. "Where were you?"

 _"_ _Gettin' beer. Dammit, John, I'm not always gonna be at home when you call me!"_

"Bobby, I've never heard of a phone doing something like that."

" _Well, you don't know everythin', do you?"_

John breathed out slowly. The old man was definitely hiding something. "You mind if I leave the boys with you for a little while? I don't want to bring them into any action after what just happened."

" _Sorry, John, I can't take 'em right now. I'm busy."_

"Busy?" said John incredulously. "With what?"

" _None a yer damn business!"_ exploded Bobby. _"Congratulations on finding Sam!"_

The line went dead.

John lowered the phone from his ear slowly. He didn't care what Bobby said. There was no reason for the other hunter to be busy. No reason at all.

Something was going on, and John intended to figure out what.

* * *

Bobby looked at the phone as it rested in its holster, lip pursed together in a tight line.

John was stubborn. And he wasn't stupid either. Bobby knew that John would be suspicious. And that meant that was coming to find out what was up.

"Sam!" Bobby called into the living room. "We've got a problem!"

* * *

Dean watched his father exit the room, eyes wide. He'd called Bobby. Why was he calling Bobby?

His gaze switched from Sammy on the bed to the closed door of the motel room.

He got up and pried to window open slightly to eavesdrop on Dad's half of the conversation.

He ran back to the table just as John reentered the room.

And he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat at the look on his father's face.

"Dean," said Dad slowly. "Pack your things and get Sam into the car. We're going to Uncle Bobby's."

Dean swallowed again. _Why?_ he wanted to ask. He'd heard Dad's input on the phone, and he could guess the other end. Bobby didn't want them there. That meant that Sammy had to be right: his older self was there. Did Dad know?

He opened his mouth to question his father, but years and years of careful obedience took over, and what came out was a muffled, "Yes sir."

John nodded curtly. "Good. Finish that sandwich and get moving."

"Yes sir."

* * *

Approximately fifteen minutes later, the motel receptionist watched as the sleek black muscle car pulled out of the parking lot. He heaved a sigh of relief; the gruff older fellow had rather terrified him.

The bell attached to the door jingled merrily as it swung open to admit a new guest. The receptionist turned with a smile on his face to greet the newcomer.

It was a woman. She was of average height with a round face and tangled black hair. Her eyebrows arched above dark eyes, and her mouth curved upwards at the corners in a know-something-you-don't kind of smirk.

"Hi, I'm Fred," said the receptionist with a gulp. "Can I help you?"

The woman grinned at him. "Yes, I think so. I'm looking for the Winchesters. You seen them?"

Fred frowned, confused. "Uh….ma'am….I'm just the receptionist, I don't know—"

She shook her head sadly. "Of course you don't, sugar. Why don't you check your books for me?"

"I—" Fred looked down nervously at the register. "Well, that would be—"

He wasn't sure how it happened. One moment the woman was standing three feet away from him, and the next she was right in front of the desk, hands grabbing his shirt collar.

She glanced down at the book and smiled. "They _were_ here. Thanks, Freddie."

"Uh….uh….ma'am…."

She pulled him into a kiss, lips pressed into his, eyes gazing intently into his.

And then the pupils expanded, and her already dark eyes turned an undeniable shade of midnight black.

That was the last thing Fred was aware of before she slit his throat.

* * *

She looked down at the body slumped over the desk and smiled.

Lovingly she stirred her fingers through the pool of blood gathered in the ancient-looking cup. Light began to shine through it.

"They were here. The Winchesters."

She listened for a moment. "Yes, of course."

Muffled whispers.

"No, I know. I'll get him. But are you certain…."

A pause.

"Yes. Of course, you're right. You're always right. Thank you, father."

She exited the motel, pouring the blood into the bushes beside her. The cup disappeared into thin air.

A storm collected on the horizon as Meg stalked off into the fading light.


	12. Prelude

**_This chapter was not meant to be read._**

 ** _First it wouldn't be written. I had to drag it kicking and screaming out of the recesses of my creativity. Second, school started, and even though I'm homeschooled, I've begun my very first year of high school and it's nuts._**

 ** _Third and fourth are the technical difficulties. I don't know if the rest of you experienced this, but I had a day and a half where Fanfiction wouldn't let me access my account. I could read stories, sure, but favorite them? Follow them? Post the damn chapter? Nope. _**

**_And then I was out all day. I intended to post when I came back, but Time Warner managed to screw with the cables and so we had no internet._**

 ** _I feel like the universe is trying to tell me something._**

 ** _In any case, here it is as last. I actually finished it two nights ago._**

 ** _On another note, I'd like to address a question that I'm sure has been in all of your minds: Why haven't we had Cas's point of view? Answer: I wasn't confident I could do it. He's such a hard character to get a read on, and I was scared to go there. As you'll see, however, I do attempt it in this chapter. If you could give me feedback on it, that'd be great. Is it any good? Should I do more of it? Should I never attempt it again? Tell me what you think!_**

 ** _I'll keep the disclaimer short today, since this note is already too long. Cas. Speak._**

 ** _Cas: Bianca Valdez does not own Supernatural._**

* * *

 **Then**

 _"_ _Hey, you okay? Do we need to find a motel?"_

 _Cas shook his head drowsily. "I'll be fine. We should find—" he was cut off by a series of hacking, wet-sounding coughs. Blood dribbled down his chin, and his blue eyes looked frighteningly dull._

 _"—_ _Find Sam," he finished weakly._

 _Then his eyes rolled back and his head hit the window._

 _"_ _Awesome." Dean swung the car brutally off the next exit. "We're stopping, I don't care what you say."_

 _"_ _You picked up earlier but didn't say anything. And then you wouldn't answer. Did something happen?"_

 _Bobby cleared his throat on the other end. "There's somethin' wrong with the answer machine," he said. "Damn thing keeps pickin' up the call on it's own."_

 _John frowned. That sounded awfully suspicious. "Where were you?"_

 _"_ _Gettin' beer. Dammit, John, I'm not always gonna be at home when you call me!"_

 _"_ _Bobby, I've never heard of a phone doing something like that."_

 _"_ _Well, you don't know everythin', do you?"_

 _There was no reason for the other hunter to be busy. No reason at all._

 _Something was going on, and John intended to figure out what._

 _"_ _I'm looking for the Winchesters. You seen them?" She glanced down at the book and smiled. "They were here. Thanks, Freddie."_

 _Lovingly she stirred her fingers through the pool of blood gathered in the ancient-looking cup. Light began to shine through it._

 _"_ _They were here. The Winchesters."_

 _She listened for a moment. "Yes, of course."_

 _Muffled whispers._

 _"_ _No, I know. I'll get him. But are you certain…."_

 _A pause._

 _"_ _Yes. Of course, you're right. You're always right. Thank you, father."_

 _A storm collected on the horizon as Meg stalked off into the fading light._

 **Now**

Dean had a bad feeling about this.

He sat shotgun in the Impala, occasionally shooting glances at his father. John had both hands on the wheel, his eyes staring forward at the road ahead.

He could feel Sammy's eyes on him and he glanced back. Their gazes met and Sam pulled a worried face. Dean grimaced to convey his concurrence.

He could only hope that his older self got to Uncle Bobby's house before they did. Hopefully he'd had enough of a head start, but Dean was still uncomfortable with the situation.

"You boys ready to tell me what's going on?"

Dean jumped and whipped his head over to look at his father. Dad was watching him, one eyebrow raised.

"What?"

"What?" Sam echoed.

"The awkward silence, the suspicious looks, the way neither of you seems to want to look straight at me? Is there something you want to tell me?"

Dean glanced back at Sam. His brother's eyes were huge, his eyebrows knotting together in a panicked face.

"There! Like that! What's up with you two?"

"I—there's—no, sir, nothing's up—just—uh…nope, we're good."

Dean glared at his brother and Sam wisely closed his mouth. Then he turned back to his father and smiled reassuringly.

"We're just tired, Dad," he said calmly, a nasty taste in his moth. Now he was lying to his own father? "And, well….I guess I'm still a little jumpy. About…about Sammy."

John's face softened and he reached out a hand to ruffle Dean's hair. "I understand. But Dean, I'm not going to let anything else happen to your brother, got that?"

Dean nodded and feigned comfort.

"Sam, you hear that? You're staying with us and nothing else is gonna get you."

Sam's acquiescence was somewhat less convincing then Dean's, but luckily John seemed too distracted to notice.

"Now, it's gonna take a few hours to get to Uncle Bobby's, so we're going to have to stop for dinner at some point. You boys pick whatever you want and we'll do it."

There was a moment of silence and then Sam piped up meekly. "Pizza?"

Dean had to smile at that. He looked at his father only to find that John was also grinning.

"Pizza sounds wonderful."

* * *

Dean was getting tired of lugging his companions, unconscious, into motels. This time he left Cas in the car while he was getting a room, but the angel was heavy nonetheless.

"Jeez, Cas, and you don't even eat," he grumbled as he muscled the door to their room open with a knee. "You'd think you'd be lighter."

Cas, of course, gave no reply, so Dean dumped him on one of the two twin beds.

Arms crossed, he inspected his work. "Hm," he said, and picked up Castiel's left leg so that it wasn't hanging off the bed. Then he awkwardly tucked the trench coat around the angel's body.

"Do angels get cold?" he wondered aloud. With a shrug, he picked up the blanket that lay folded at the foot of the bed and threw it over Cas.

He stood back and smiled. Good enough.

Cas lay unmoving in the strange nest that had been created for him. The overcast sky outside gave way and began to drizzle.

Dean sighed and sat down on his bed. "Well, _tonight_ ain't gonna be a weird at all."

Silence.

Dean watched the angel for several more moments, fidgeting impatiently. "Yeah, okay," he finally said, standing. "You just lie there. Ima go get me a burger."

Cold February droplets hit Dean's face as soon as he stepped outside, blown under the awning by a gust of wind. Dean frowned in annoyance and locked the door behind him, hoping that, with any luck, no one would break in and steal his angel.

Yeah. Because he was so high on luck these days.

Dean snorted dryly at his own humor, though honestly it wasn't all that funny. Then he hunched his shoulders, turned up his jacket collar, and marched out into the dreariness that was the parking lot.

It took him a moment to remember which car was 'his'. Once he figured it out, he grumpily clambered in and closed the door.

"Freaking time travel," he grumbled as he connected the proper wires. Then, foot on the gas pedal and pedal to the floor, he roared out of the parking lot on his mission for food.

When Dean reentered the motel room roughly a half hour later, Cas was awake.

More specifically, he was sitting up, legs hanging off the bed, back ramrod straight, staring at his hands.

"Dude," said Dean, raising an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

Cas lifted a hand for Dean to see, displaying the fact that it was shaking. "Fascinating, isn't it?" he said, eyes trained on his twitching fingers. "We are made out as such invulnerable creatures, and yet it takes so little to weaken us."

"Uh-huh," said Dean, completely non-caring. "Sure. You good to get back on the road, or do you need to stay the night?"

The angel lowered his hand back towards his lap and continued to stare at it.

"Cas!"

The cobalt blue gaze swung up to meet his, serious and matter-of-fact as ever. "Yes, I should be alright," he said. "I don't need sleep."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, I got that. Let's go." He started towards the door, then turned to look at the angel. "Can you stand on your own?"

Cas cautiously pushed himself onto his feet and took an experimental step forwards. "Yes."

"Burger?"

"I….don't eat, either."

"Your loss."

* * *

Sam was working his way through Bobby's library, trying to find something on time travel.

He wasn't having much luck.

There were a lot of books on the shelves, and not all of them were in English. The majority of the ones that _were_ were written in a print that was either infuriatingly small or embellished past the point of legibility. A few of them were both.

Sam's head hurt.

"You got anything?" he asked, looking up at Bobby. The old hunter shot him a look.

"Yeah, Sam, an entire spell! I just _forgot_ to tell you."

Sam sighed. "I guess that's a no, then."

Bobby just shook his head and grumbled something under his breath. The two sat there for in silence for several more moments, the only sound the gentle whisper of turning pages.

Then it was shattered by the rumble of an engine outside of the house. Sam sat up so quickly that he nearly gave himself whiplash, because he knew that engine. That was the Impala's engine.

So unless Dean had rigged up his own personal Impala-Delorean to come fetch him, that was Dad.

 _What was Dad doing here?_

And, more importantly, _what was he going to do when he saw Sam?_

Bobby moved to the window, not recognizing the sound as readily as Sam did. He moved the curtain aside slightly and peered out, before turning back to Sam, face slightly panicked.

"It's yer dad."

Sam jumped to his feet, his chair clattering to the ground behind him. "What do we do?!"

"Panic room! Go!"

Sam moved to obey, but stopped and gestured at the various books. "What about these?!"

Bobby paused for a single second, and Sam could almost see the gears turning in his head. "Grab as many as you can, I'll get the rest! Now git!"

Long arms reached down to scoop up a stack of battered leather tomes, and then he was off, feet pounding the ground in his hurry to get downstairs. Through the blood pumping in his ears, Sam heard the doorbell ring and he ran faster, dropping several books and almost tripping down the stairs in his haste.

Frantically, Sam scooped up the books, spilling several more as he did so. Frowning, he rushed into the panic room and dumped his load on the bed before going back for the ones he'd dropped. As he stooped to pick them up, he froze, a gruff voice filling his ears.

"—suspicious answer! And I wasn't going to drag the boys out on a hunt, not right after what just happened!"

Bobby's reply was quieter, and so Sam only caught the end. "—this privately?"

"Boys—" Then something Sam couldn't make out, "—upstairs?"

Muffled sounds of acquiescence and feet pounding above Sam's head. He swallowed nervously and hurried back to the panic room, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could, the sound luckily hidden by the loud thumps of what he could only assume were this time's Dean and himself.

Sam closed his eyes briefly and plopped down on the mattress, the books bouncing up at his sudden weight.

Now he was _really_ screwed.

* * *

"Dean."

"I know, I know."

"Dean."

"I _know,_ Cas!"

A pause.

" _Dean._ "

"Goddammit Cas, fine! I'll stop the damn car!"

Tires screeched as Dean abruptly pulled the car in a u-turn and wheeled his way back to the gas station they'd just passed, slamming on the breaks harshly and slamming open the door.

Castiel watched worriedly from the passenger seat as Dean moved to the pump. The gas meter had dropped steadily towards zero several miles ago, and it hadn't stopped. Neither had Dean. Finally, some point after the tank reached the 10% mark, Castiel had found it his angelic duty to intervene.

Dean, the stubborn human that he was, hadn't been thrilled. Castiel knew, of course, the importance of reaching Sam, but it was a matter of practicality. Their trip would only be lengthened were they to become stranded without fuel on the side of the road.

A head appeared in the open door, and Castiel found himself faced with a grumpy-looking Dean. "Well, don't just sit there," said Dean grouchily. "Go inside and get me some food."

Castiel cocked his head. "Didn't you just eat a hamburger?"

"Hey, no judging. I'm a grown man. I need my fuel! Now move your ass!"

The angel sighed and did as he was told. He made it out of the car before pausing and turning back to his hunter friend.

"Dean, I don't have any money."

The only reply he received was a grubby wallet hurled at his face. With his superior reflexes he was able to catch it almost before he realized it was coming at him. "What would you like?"

"Food! I don't care, just go!"

Castiel obeyed. He was good at obeying.

The gas station shop was quiet, filthy, and manned by a grumpy-looking African American man in his middle years. Castiel nodded at him, his face as serious as ever, and the man smiled a smile that was mere routine.

"Can I help you, sir?" he asked in the flat tones of someone who knew they could have more in life and had somehow failed at reaching it. Castiel thought for a moment, recalling what he'd seen of Dean's eating habits.

"Do you have any pie?" Castiel questioned.

The cashier nodded and raised a hand to point. "Over there. Next to the Coke."

Castiel turned. "What is 'coke'?"

The man raised an eyebrow at this but didn't comment. "Uh….Coca Cola? As in soda?"

Castiel got the distinct feeling that this was one of those things that normal humans were just supposed to know. "Ah, yes," he said. "I apologize." He still wasn't sure what 'Coke' was, but the stack of bottles labeled 'Coca Cola' seemed a good enough place to start.

As he made his way over, the sound of the door counter clicking reached his ears, indicating the arrival of someone else in the shop. Castiel froze as his senses tingled. Slowly he turned, eyes widening in horror at what he saw.

There was a soft _tch_ sound as his blade slid into his hand and he ducked out of sight behind the shelf.

The cashier let out a garbled scream and the metallic sent of blood filled the air.

The newcomer strolled confidently into Castiel's aisle, true face bared to the angel, grinning and clutching his very one angel blade. "Hello, Castiel," he said. "I was hoping I'd find you here."

His eyes flashed black.

Castiel gripped his weapon tighter. "What do you want?"

"What do I _want_?" laughed the demon. "I want world domination. I want Hell on earth. But I'll settle for your head on a stick."

"Why?"

"Three reasons. First, you're just plain annoying. Second, you're dangerous. It's much simpler to get at the Winchesters when you aren't hanging around them. Third, they've been conveniently misplaced on the timeline. Without you, they're stuck here."

Castiel's eyes widened. "No."

The demon's smile stretched to impossible dimensions. "You betcha. Sorry you'll have to miss the prizefight. It'll be entertaining."

With that, the demon launched itself forwards, and the fight began.


	13. Confrontations

**_GUYS. DID YOU SEE THE TRAILER?! DID YOU?! IF NOT, YOU NEED TO GO LOOK IT UP_** ** _NOW_** ** _._**

 ** _I sort of freaked out after watching it. Like, I was literally, actually hyperventilating._**

 ** _WHY CAN'T IT BE OCTOBER 6TH_** ** _TODAY?_**

 ** _Ahem. Sorry. Got a bit carried away there._**

 ** _So this chapter is a long 'un. Mostly because I couldn't figure out how to end it. But here it is. I feel like it's been a while since my last update. Has it actually been, or does it just seem that way?_**

 ** _Writing for Meg should not give me as much joy as it does, but I LOVE HER. I didn't used to, back at the start when she was all annoying and working with Azazel. I really hated her then. Then she came back in season five with Lucifer and she was all badass and "Hellhounds." "Yeah, Dean, you're favorite!"_**

 ** _Also, have you checked out my story "Stories Are The Best Medicine" yet? If not, you should. :)_**

 ** _Me: Remember when I said I was easing us into the other Crowley, from Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett? Well, here's the other Crowley._**

 ** _Crowley: Can we make this quick? I was menacing the plants._**

 ** _Me: I'm pretty sure the plants are fairly menaced._**

 ** _Crowley: Oh, I wouldn't count on it. They need very strict discipline, houseplants._**

 ** _Me: Can you just say the disclaimer?_**

 ** _Crowley: No._**

 ** _Me: Why not?_**

 ** _Crowley: Because I'm a demon and I don't listen to humans._**

 ** _Me: But you have to listen to me._**

 ** _Crowley: Oh? And why's that?_**

 ** _Me: I can't say for sure, it's all ineffable._**

 ** _Crowley: That was low. Fine! Bianca Valdez does not own Supernatural or Good Omens. Now I'm LEAVING._**

 ** _Me: Great! Good—_**

 ** _Me: ...he's already gone._**

* * *

 **Then**

 _That was the Impala's engine._

 _That was Dad._

 _What was Dad doing here?_

 _And, more importantly, what was he going to do when he saw Sam?_

 _The newcomer strolled confidently into Castiel's aisle, true face bared to the angel, grinning and clutching his very one angel blade. "Hello, Castiel," he said. "I was hoping I'd find you here."_

 _His eyes flashed black._

 _Castiel gripped his weapon tighter. "What do you want?"_

 _"_ _What do I want?" laughed the demon. "I want world domination. I want Hell on earth. But I'll settle for your head on a stick."_

 _"_ _Why?"_

 _"_ _Three reasons. First, you're just plain annoying. Second, you're dangerous. It's much simpler to get at the Winchesters when you aren't hanging around them. Third, they've been conveniently misplaced on the timeline. Without you, they're stuck here. Sorry you'll have to miss the prizefight. It'll be entertaining."_

 _With that, the demon launched himself forwards, and the fight began._

 _"_ _I'm looking for the Winchesters. You seen them?" She glanced down at the book and smiled. "They were here. Thanks, Freddie."_

 _Lovingly she stirred her fingers through the pool of blood gathered in the ancient-looking cup. Light began to shine through it._

 _"_ _They were here. The Winchesters."_

 _A pause._

 _"_ _Yes. Of course, you're right. You're always right. Thank you, father."_

 _A storm collected on the horizon as Meg stalked off into the fading light._

 **Now**

The fight lasted barely a minute.

As the demon swung wildly at him, angel blade extended, Castiel ducked beneath its arm, grabbing firmly at the appendage and twisting the demon into arm lock. The blade clattered to the floor.

"How have you followed us?" Castiel demanded, placing his own weapon at the demon's throat. "And why? Killing me is not worth the risk. What do you want?"

The demon hissed and squirmed. "It's not rocket science," it snarled. "You left the door open! It only stands to reason that someone else was going to walk through."

Castiel pressed the blade harder into the demon's throat. "Why are you here?" he repeated angrily.

The pupils expanded until the eyes were once more filled with black. The demon grinned madly, unperturbed by the trickle of blood sliding down its throat "Sam Winchester!" it said, laughing. Then it threw back its head and screamed.

A black cloud of pure demonic evil began to flow from its mouth, and Castiel stumbled backwards. "No!" he yelled, stretching one hand outwards in the hopes of smiting the hideous, twisted creature.

He was too late. The writhing black smoke that was the demon spilled into the air vents, the poor vessel collapsing to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

Castiel checked the man's pulse. It was silent. Whether this man had already been dead or if the demon had gotten it killed, the angel couldn't tell, but he suspected the latter.

Face grim, hidden thoughts of guilt having to do with his own vessel emerging, Castiel smoothed out his trench coat and tucked his blade back into his sleeve. Then, sending an apologetic look in the direction of the dead cashier, Castiel left the building.

Dean stood by the car, looking impatient. "Did you ge—" the words died on his lips the minute he saw Castiel's rumpled appearance, the look on his face, the blood on his sleeve. The hunter's own expression became more serious.

"What happened?"

"We need to get to Sam," said Castiel. He started towards the car, but Dean stepped in front of him.

"Cas. _What happened?_ "

Castiel leveled his gaze at the slightly taller man, before flapping his wings gently and appearing in the front seat of the Impala. Dean slid into the driver's seat angrily, his expression stormy.

"Castiel, I am not moving this car until you tell me what the _hell_ is going on."

"There was a demon."

Dean's eyebrows flew up incredulously. "What?"

"I was ambushed by a demon. I managed to overcome it, but unfortunately it escaped before I could kill it."

"Why didn't you just kill it right away?!"

Castiel turned his eyes towards the road. "I needed to know what it wanted."

"….And?"

"Sam. Dean, I don't know why, but the demons are after your brother."

Something changed in the hunter's face, something darker. Eyes narrowing intently, he pressed the pedal to the floor and roared out of the gas station towards the house of Bobby Singer.

* * *

It was the book that did it.

Or, at least, that was where Sam had chosen to lay the blame, even though truthfully it was his fault. Though perhaps it had more to do with his incredibly bad luck than anything else.

He'd been reading for over an hour, and he thought he was going to go insane. At some point he'd begun pacing, telling himself that it was to stretch his legs. So here he was, book in hand, standing beneath the rotating shadow of the fan above, and he had found nothing.

 _Still nothing._

Sam allowed himself a tiny moan of frustration and let the huge, dusty tome drop lightly onto the table. This small, ordinary action was his downfall.

The book landed half on, half off of the tabletop. It wobbled for a second, and Sam lunged for it. As he did so, his leg caught the chair leg, and with a resounding crash, it hit the floor. Sam flinched back, fingers brushing the book, and it lost its own battle with gravity.

 _Crash. Thud._

Sam's eyes widened as the voices upstairs ground to a halt. Hurriedly he grabbed his jacket and ran for the door.

He could hear footsteps upstairs, coming downstairs, Dad's footsteps coming towards him, and Sam threw all caution to the wind and just opened the door, ignoring the ugly grating sound of metal on metal, because he honestly couldn't remember a time in his life when he'd felt so afraid.

Now he knew how all those demons they hunted felt. Having a Winchester on your tail was the most terrifying experience out there.

Except that it was _Dad_. Sam was afraid of _Dad_ , and it was the worst feeling. He'd been angry with his father before. He'd shouted and fought, told Dad he hated him and _meant_ it, ran away with the intention of staying away, but he'd never been afraid of him before. Dad was infuriating, but he was _safe_.

Not as safe as Dean, but still safe.

And now Dad was after him, and Sam had to get away before he was seen, because if John _did_ see him, he was dead meat.

Literally.

Sam tore across the cellar, heading straight for the doors which lead up and out into the yard. His shaking fingers fumbled with the latch, but finally he managed to push them open. Not stopping to look back, he pushed through, his feet kicking up dust as he ran to hide behind a car.

For a moment, all Sam could hear was his own ragged breathing and the blood rushing in his ears. Then his pulse slowed enough for him to hear the slow, ominous crunching of gravel beneath heavy boots.

Sam froze. Dad.

The next thing that happened was so quick that Sam missed how it had happened. One minute he was crouched behind the car, trying not to move, trying not the breath, and the next moment he was being thrown into a car with enough force to dent the hood.

"I told you to stay away from my family!" John shouted. "So you run to Bobby?! What lies have you been telling him?! What do you want?!"

Sam stared at him in panic, unable to answer due to the lack of oxygen in his lungs. Wheezing, he slowly pushed himself upward and sucked in a huge gulp of air.

"John, wait—" _wheeze_ "—I can explain!"

"Yeah, I _bet_ you can!" roared John furiously, swinging a punch at Sam which sent him to the ground, where he was immediately given a kick to the ribs. Sam groaned, his already injured body protesting against the violence.

He was vaguely aware of Bobby coming running from the house, attempting to reason with his father, but John wouldn't listen, shoving Bobby aside and keeping him there with his own personal punch to the jaw.

Bobby was out of play, and now Sam was completely alone.

Sam's every instinct told him to fight back, but he couldn't seem to get a punch in. This was probably a good thing, seeing as it would simply aggravate John more, but at this point that didn't matter. Sam just needed to get away from his father. He needed to make John understand.

Sam stumbled to his feet, leaning against a car and accidently cutting himself on a sharp piece of metal. Bringing his now bleeding hand towards his chest, he was too slow to duck the punch that John swung at his jaw. Nor did he escape the swing at his stomach which followed a moment after.

"Stop!" Sam managed to gasp out.

There was a sudden still.

The ragged breathing of two strong men who had just been engaged in a fight.

The ominous click of a trigger readying.

Sam stared up into the barrel of John's gun, leveled with a steady hand directly at his heart.

His eyes widened. "No…" he breathed. "Wait…"

John's finger tightened on the trigger, his eyes seeming to stare into Sam's soul.

A gunshot rang through the air.

* * *

Her heeled boots made clicking sounds on the street. Her hips swayed from side to side as she walked. Her dark hair blew around her face as the wind rushed past, and she surveyed the world through black eyes.

"We found them."

She stopped and inhaled the scent of victory.

"Where?"

"Singer's house."

She smiled, and it was the smile of a snake. "Then we were right."

He nodded slowly.

"Are we ready?"

"Yes."

She turned away from him. "Give them the order." With that she strode off, sunlight seemingly absorbed into her black leather clothes, an ironic commentary on the state of her soul.

Her soul was like a black hole. She didn't have one.

She reeked of vice. She bathed in sin. The very air she breathed was filled with wickedness.

Meg was the very image of ungodliness and she loved it.

* * *

Sam slowly opened his eyes and lowered his hands from where they'd flown to cover his face.

He was alive.

 _Alive._

But John never missed a shot, so how…?

As he slowly peered out at the scene before him, Sam realized what had happened.

It wasn't John who had fired the shot.

Somehow, they'd missed the rumble of the car's engine as it drove up the driveway, the crunch of dirt beneath its tires. Somehow they'd missed the sound the door made as it opened.

But there was no ignoring it now.

Dean—his Dean, from his time—stood on the gravel drive, smoking gun in hand, serious look on his face. Behind him crouched an unfamiliar, most-likely stolen car, and leaning heavily against that stood Castiel, looking, perhaps, a bit worse for the wear but still an angel and still on Sam's side, angel blade drawn and ready to defend the Winchesters with his life.

This was different from anything else, though. This time the threat wasn't some monster.

The threat was another Winchester.

On the porch to Sam's left, he saw that his and Dean's younger selves had run out and were now watching, petrified. Bobby was slowly clambering to his feet behind John, looking angry.

Then Dean spoke.

"Why don'tcha put down the gun, John," he said coolly. A wave of relief washed over Sam at the sound of his brother's voice; it didn't matter that he was still in danger, that he was still beat up and bleeding, because now Dean was here and Dean would protect him.

Funny how your childhood instincts take over when you're afraid.

John raised the gun from where he'd lowered it and aimed at Dean. "Who the hell are you?"

Dean sighed. "I'm really not in the mood for explaining myself at gunpoint. So why don't you drop that and we can have a nice, civilized discussion."

"Or I could just shoot you now."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "You think you're faster?"

"I don't know. But I do know one thing." John swung the barrel of the gun back around towards Sam, and he froze. "Even if you shoot me first, I could still get a shot out before I dropped dead. Now, obviously you care about this maniac. How'd you like to be responsible for his death?"

"If you touch one hair on his head, I will make you rue the day you were born," Dean threatened.

Sam watched this scene with wide eyes, heart in his throat. This altercation awakened to many bad memories. Dad and Dean shouldn't be fighting. _He_ was the one was supposed to fight Dad. Dean was the one who smoothed things over. He was the middleman. He brought them back together after an argument.

The only time either of them had aimed a gun at their father and meant it was when he was possessed by Azazel.

Sam hadn't been able to shoot him then, and he knew that Dean wouldn't be able to shoot him now. He knew because Dean hadn't shot _him_ when he was hopped up on demon blood and out destroying the world. He knew because when _he'd_ been possessed, stealing and destroying and threatening Jo, when the demon had put the gun in Dean's hand, _begged_ with Sam's own voice for Dean to kill him, his brother wasn't able to pull the trigger.

 _You don't give up on family._

"Dean…" Sam called weakly. "Don't!"

His brother's eyes switched to him briefly. Even from this distance, Sam could see the tremor in Dean's arm, though he knew that no one else (barring Cas and their younger selves) would notice it.

Dean and John locked gazes, tension filling the air. "We don't even have to talk," said Dean slowly. "Just let him go and we'll get out of your sight. You'll never have to see us again, I promise."

Sam didn't miss the irony in those words.

John considered this for a moment, gun hand not wavering. Then his face hardened.

"No. I already warned him away from my family. I don't give second chances."

He sighted along the barrel and Sam flinched back. A cry escaped from the mouth of Sam's own younger self, past-Dean at the same time shouting, "Dad, no!" and then the air was filled with the flutter of wings.

Singer's Junkyard and Auto Salvage rang out with the second shot of the day.

The bullet pierced itself harmlessly through the metal of a car door.

Cas stood behind John, pulling him into an arm lock and wresting the gun from his hand. "Enough!" he said harshly. "Violence will solve nothing!"

John opened his mouth to retaliate, but they never found out what he would have said, because at that moment the air filled with a ferocious growling noise.

A shiver went down Sam's spine. He exchanged a glance with Dean, and the look on his brother's face was pure terror. Their mouths moved at the same time, the single word spoken with dread.

"Hellhounds."

Almost in the same moment, a cry pierced the air, followed by a desperate call of, "Sammy!" from the mouth of Past-Dean.

All eyes switched to the porch. A strange man stood there, blade at Past-Sammy's throat.

The man's eyes were black.

A footstep behind Sam and the prickle of hairs on the back of his neck alerted him to the approaching figure behind him and he whirled, but it was too late. In seconds he was in the same position as his younger self.

And the demon who was holding him captive was Meg.

"Hey, Sammy!" she said, all perky and menacing at the same time. Her black hair blew into his face and her hand was unnaturally cold on his arm.

"Meg," snarled Dean, starting forward. "Let them go!"

Meg laughed. "Sorry, Dean-o, but you don't have any leverage. And besides, my father _really_ wants to see them."

Sam's blood ran cold. "No!" he choked out.

"Oh, yes," smirked the demon. "Now, instead of just one meat-suit, we've got two!"

There was a blast of wind and then Sam's surroundings changed. He lashed out violently, but a fist collided his head and sent him spinning into darkness.

The last thing he saw was the bright white flash of Meg's smile.

* * *

 _ **I don't usually put a note at the bottom, but I just have to say this. You know in the chapter when Dean's all "Why don'tcha put the gun down?"? Does anyone**_ _ **else**_ _ **have that scene from the beginning of the Avengers running through their heads? I just keep hearing John being all "You want me to put the gun down?!" And Sam being all "Bad call. He loves that gone." Hm. Does that make Dean Steve? And Sam Tony? That**_ ** _doesn't work. Dean is TOTALLY Tony._**


	14. Explanations

_**Jesus Christ.**_

 _ **Ok, so not a lot happens in this chapter. And just so you know? No non-action chapter should take as long as this one did.**_

 ** _Remember earlier when I said these were unedited? Well, this one is REALLY unedited, and I've just finished it at midnight and I have not enough sleep already, so...no promises are being made._**

 ** _This week's excuses are Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and homework. I guess those are all valid, but they're still excuses._**

 ** _The truth is I could not summon up the will to right this darn chapter. It's hard enough to keep two Winchesters in character, and now I've got to deal with duplicates? Earlier the duplicates were in separate places, little Sam with big Dean and little Dean with big Sam, but now? Now it's Dean on Dean and Sam on Sam and my head is going to explode._**

 ** _YOU try writing that, see how it works for you._**

 ** _Why did I write this story in the first place?_**

 ** _Anyway, I did write it. And I have a chapter here for you. (Also, I wrote an Amazing Spiderman/Daredevil one-shot, so...Marvel fans, anyone?) Gimme feedback! Is it awesome or awful or somewhere in between?_**

 ** _Ok. Without any further ado..._**

 ** _Chappie numero thirteen. Ah. Thirteen? Maybe that's why it didn't want to be written._**

 ** _Oh, and I named my muse. His name is Steven, in honor of the world's most evilest tv screenwriter. Pie to anyone who gets it._**

 ** _I don't even have the energy for a fun disclaimer. That's how tired I am._**

* * *

 **Then**

 _You don't give up on family._

 _"_ _No. I already warned him away from my family. I don't give second chances."_

 _He sighted along the barrel and Sam flinched back. A cry escaped from the mouth of Sam's own younger self, past-Dean at the same time shouting, "Dad, no!" and then the air was filled with the flutter of wings._

 _Cas stood behind John, pulling him into an arm lock and wresting the gun from his hand. "Enough!" he said harshly. "Violence will solve nothing!"_

 _John opened his mouth to retaliate, but they never found out what he would have said, because at that moment the air filled with a ferocious growling noise._

 _"_ _Hellhounds."_

 _All eyes switched to the porch. A strange man stood there, blade at Past-Sammy's throat._

 _The man's eyes were black._

 _A footstep behind Sam and the prickle of hairs on the back of his neck alerted him to the approaching figure behind him and he whirled, but it was too late. In seconds he was in the same position as his younger self._

 _And the demon who was holding him captive was Meg._

 _"_ _My father really wants to see them. Now, instead of just one meat-suit, we've got two!"_

 _There was a blast of wind and then Sam's surroundings changed. He lashed out violently, but a fist collided his head and sent him spinning into darkness._

 _The last thing he saw was the bright white flash of Meg's smile_

 **Now**

"Sam!"

"Sammy!"

Two voices called out. Two pairs of green eyes widened in horror. Two bow-legged bodies started forward towards an enemy that was no longer there.

In that moment, John saw.

And he understood.

The understanding crashed onto him in a cold wave and he froze, mind racing at the conclusion he just come to.

He didn't know why he hadn't seen it before, when it was right under his nose. The way 'Ash' had moved during the fight—those were the moves John had taught his sons, the adaptations Sammy had made for them to fit his form. The serious tone and the protectiveness in the new man's voice—that was Dean's attitude whenever his younger brother was threatened.

His sons' earlier awkwardness. Sammy's reluctance to talk about what had happened to him. Dean's vague explanation of how he'd been found. Bobby's suspicious behavior concerning John's arrival.

The demon had called them by their names.

 _"_ _Hey, Sammy!" "Sorry, Dean-o."_

"Oh, god," choked out John. His arms went limp in the grasp of the trench coat clad stranger, and he was cautiously released.

The Dean-like newcomer turned to him, face tired. "Do you see it?" he asked simply.

"No…that's not…"

"It is."

"Are you…?" he didn't need to continue. His eyes flitted from his eldest son to the man before him.

"Yep."

He'd hit Ash—Sam. He'd hurt him. _Oh, god_ …

He'd tried to kill him. He'd raised the gun and he was going to pull the trigger.

John's eyes sought solace with Bobby, but the sympathy in the older man's expression was more than he could handle. His gaze trailed from one version of Dean to the next, before finally settling on the empty spaces at either side of his peripheral vision.

"Oh, god, Sammy…" he breathed. "I'm so sorry."

A second apology was sent silently upwards. It was plaintive and deep-rooted and familiar, apology he'd made many times in the past.

It was an apology to Mary, a plea of forgiveness for destroying the lives of her boys.

* * *

When Sammy woke up, he had no idea where he was.

The room was dark, the air moldy and damp. He could hear his own ragged gasps reverberating off of the walls.

His breaths...and the breaths of one other.

Scratch that. Still his breaths. Just two sets of them.

Sam—his older self—still seemed to be unconscious. Sammy crawled over to him in the dim light, limbs protesting. Gently he prodded the broad shoulder, reveling at the hugeness he would someday achieve.

When this was all over, he was going to tease Dean about this. Mercilessly. For all eternity.

Well….he supposed that would be _if_ this was ever over, not when.

Sam wasn't waking up, so Sammy poked him again. "Wake up," he whispered harshly.

He couldn't seem to get his brain to understand that he and this man were the same person. There was no reasoning with it; the human mind was not built for such matters.

"Sam!" he hissed again, putting both hands on the hunter's shoulders and shaking him violently.

There was a low moan, and for the first time Sammy noticed the blood clumped along his older self's hairline. As he let his gaze travel along Sam's body, he realized just how beat up he was. Obviously the demon that had snagged them had done something injurious to the man, and that was on top of the beating he'd received from Dad.

"Hey! Wake up!" he was starting to feel desperate now; sure, they were the same person, but Sam was older and had more experience. He'd know what to do, right? He'd get them out of here, wherever 'here' was.

In the corner of his mind, Sammy wondered at how easily he'd placed his older self in Dean's position.

"Uhn…"

Sammy's eyes snapped towards Sam's face instantly, eyes straining in the dim light. "Sam!" he insisted, the name strange in his mouth when directed at another person. "Hey!"

"Uh….wha?" The familiar hazel eyes opened slowly. They focused on his face and blinked once. "Oh, god, you're still there."

Sammy wasn't sure whether or not he should be offended by that. He decided to ignore it. "How do you feel?"

Sam sat up slowly. "Well, I have one monster of a headache," he moaned, rubbing his forehead. "Where the hell are we?"

"I dunno," Sammy shrugged. "I just woke up here a couple minutes ago."

"Ugh." Sam closed his eyes for a long moment, forehead wrinkled in an expression of worried thought that Sammy found himself mirroring. "What do you remember?"

"Um…I was inside with Dean and then we heard yelling so we ran outside and Dad was….and when I saw you at first I couldn't believe what I was seeing, but then I remembered how much the other Dean looked like my Dean when I saw _him_ for the first time—"

"Whoa, whoa, wait," said Sam, holding up a hand. "You already met Dean? My Dean, I mean."

Sammy nodded.

"So…he told you about everything that happened? You know who I am?"

"Dude, did you not even hear the part where I called you 'Sam'? And yeah, I know what happened because it happened to me too. I can now officially say that I've seen the future."

"Huh." Sam brushed a loose strand of hair out of his face.

"Can I finish answering your earlier question?"

"Oh! Oh, yeah."

"So I saw Dad and you and…uh…what was happening, and then I wanted to stop him but I didn't know how. And then the air went cold and Dean's eyes got all big and then that demon had me. Then the other one, the girl one, finished talking and everything got all black."

Sam pressed his lips together and inspected a cut on his hand. "Yeah, that's pretty much the same thing I remember. We've got the best luck, don't we?"

"Hm. Yeah," snorted Sammy dryly.

They were quiet for a moment.

The older hunter took a breath as if to speak, and Sammy glanced over, but he'd already closed his mouth again. "What?" Sammy asked.

"Nothing. Just—" he seemed to think for a moment. "Nothing."

"No, seriously, what?"

Sam turned to him, eyebrows knotting together impressively. "Something that Meg said is bothering me."

"Meg…that's the demon that grabbed you, right?"

"Right. Anyway, right before she zapped us here, she said that 'instead of having one meat-suit, they had two'. So…"

Sammy stared at him for a moment, confused. "Uh…so they're planning on possessing us? Aren't there, like, a bagillion other people they could nab? Why make a special trip just for us, and leave the rest of them?"

Up to this point, every new emotion that came to Sam was instantly clear to Sammy. Every gesture, every inflection, every individual syllable was his own. But the look that now filled Sam's eyes wasn't anything he'd ever felt himself. It was sad, and tired. It was desperate.

It terrified Sammy more than anything else he'd seen over the past few days, and that was saying something considering where he was currently.

"There's a lot you don't understand," said Sam softly. "Not yet."

"So explain it to me," Sammy crossed his arms stubbornly. "And don't give me any of that 'you can't know about your future' crap."

Sam sighed. "Well…I don't know how to say this, so I'm just gonna go for it. Angels exist."

"Yeah, I know. How d'ya think I got back here?"

One eyebrow lifted beneath the long brown bangs. "Huh. That makes things simpler."

"Does it?"

"Yeah, it does. Um, so…I'm just going to give you the basics. And…uh…don't freak out."

Sammy stared at him. "Dude. I have time-traveled via angel express, met my older self, and been kidnapped by demons. Nothing you say is going to make me any more freaked out than I already am."

Sam snorted and opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment there came an ominous creaking noise and the door swung open.

Black leather boots leading up to dark jeans and a black leather jacket. Dark gray t-shirt and stringy obsidian hair framing a round face and a pure white smile.

Meg.

"Hello, boys. Comfortable?"

* * *

Dean was pacing.

He'd been pacing for the last hour, silently watched by an old drunk, his dead father, an angel, and his own younger self.

It was like the setup to a comedy routine.

When he'd first had the thought he turned around to joke about it to Sam, expecting the typical roll of the eyes and practiced annoyance. But the words had died on his lips, because Sam wasn't there.

Damn Meg. Damn the Apocalypse. Damn it all to Hell.

"Are you sure you can't find them?" Dean said to Cas for what must have been the tenth time. "I mean, little Sammy doesn't have the rib tattoos yet, so…"

Cas sighed, exasperated. "As I have already told you, Dean, _no._ Wherever they're being kept must be warded against angels."

Dean pressed his lips together and resumed his pacing. They all sat there in silence for a moment longer, before John spoke.

"Can we talk about what's going on now?" His voice was strained, his eyes tired. Dean knew that his father was horrified by what he'd done, and yet all he could feel was anger towards him.

It must have shown in his face that he did not want to explain, because after a brief pause, Past-Him spoke up.

"They're from the future. My understanding is that some demon did something that pulled our Sammy from the now and swapped him with that Sam. That's me. The other guy who you...the other guy is Sammy."

John looked away. "So how'd future-you get back here?"

"That would be me," said Cas, not moving from his position leaning against the doorframe.

"And who the hell are you?"

"My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the lord."

"Seriously?" John asked, unbelieving.

"Yes. I was able to bring Dean and this time's Sam back so that he would be returned to you and so that we could retrieve our Sam."

Bobby crossed his arms. "So why do the demons want either of 'em anyway? And what was all that crap about 'meat-suits'?"

Dean couldn't take it anymore. Sammy was missing—his Sammy, and two versions of his Sammy _,_ and _Dean had let it happen—_ and they were just sitting around talking. So what if Cas couldn't find them with his angel mojo? Dean was prepared to manually search the entire country until he found his brother.

"It doesn't matter!" he exploded. "Sam's missing and we're sitting around chatting like a bunch of useless bums! We should be out looking for him!"

They all stared at him in shocked silence for a moment. "Dean…" Cas started cautiously.

"Dammit, Cas, no!" yelled Dean, throwing his hands up. "Don't talk to me like that! All of you! Stop looking at me like I'm made of glass! Get off your asses and do something!"

"He's right," said Past-Dean, standing. "Or, well, I guess _I'm_ right. Whatever, the point is that—"

"Stop it. Both of you." John's tone was low and final, making it very clear that he was now in command of the discussion. "We'll find Sam. Believe me, we will. But yelling and acting rash isn't going to help. I want him back as much as you, but the fact is we have no idea where to start. You say we should be out looking. Fine, then, we'll look. Where, exactly, are we looking? Do we have any ideas? At all?"

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, face taught with pain. He gave no reply, and neither did his younger self.

"Right. So we need a plan. You know how we get a plan? We sit down and we think, but most importantly we get all the facts. We know our enemy: their objectives, their motives. What do they want? Why do they want it? Where would they keep it, and how will we find it?

"I know you're panicking. I know you're scared for Sam's sake. And believe me, I am too. After all, I'm the one who…" he cleared his throat. "The point is that as much as it hurts, we can't lose our heads. We have to put our feelings aside and focus on asking the right questions. If we do that, we can find your brother."

There was a pause, before Past-Dean spoke up softly. "Do you think he knows we're coming?"

Something inside Dean broke to hear the words spoken aloud. Those were the words that sang like a mantra through his head; those were the words that pounded through his veins with every beat of his heart. Where is Sam? Will we find him? Is he ok? Does he know we're coming for him?

He thought back to all the times Sammy had gotten himself into trouble, all the times Dean had had to save him. He remembered feeling his brother's blood between his fingers as Sammy's body grew cold, Bobby's footsteps disappearing into the night in pursuit of the monster responsible, followed by his desperate bid to save Sam, even if it cost him his own soul. He remembered coming back from Hell and the look on Sammy's face, the way he embraced Dean like he never wanted to let go. He remembered Sam's eyes, clouded with demonic power, so afraid as he realized what he'd done and the light filled the room.

He remembered all these things, and Dean knew one thing. He knew that no matter what happened, wherever Sam was, he would find him. He would save him.

He was willing to bet Sammy knew it too.

"Yeah," he said, not looking at his younger self. "I think he knows."


	15. Clockwork Angels

_**Yeah, so, this one's a bit short, but it's where the chapter naturally wanted to end. Now, I love you guys, but I don't love you enough to argue with Steven (Yes, Steven Moffat is his namesake, for those of you who guessed, and in case you did not know, he is the mastermind behind Doctor Who and**_ ** _Sherlock) over chapter length._**

 ** _It's a bit early yet, but I'm going to warn you that no chapters will be written or posted during the month of November, due to that being NaNoWriMo. If you don't know what that is, look it up. I shall be concentrating on my own, original, half-finished novel, and will not have any time left over for fanfics._**

 ** _The title of this chapter comes from a Rush album of the same name._**

 ** _Oh, and guys, s11 is on Wednesday. I don't think I can make it Wednesday. I think I may explode before Wednesday. Doctor Who s9 is satiating me a bit, but only a bit. I still need a solution to s10's evil cliffy._**

 ** _Without further ado:_**

 ** _Me: Sammy. It's your turn._**

 ** _Sam: It's Sam._**

 ** _Me: I can call you whatever the heck I want. I'm the author. So suck it._**

 ** _Sam: God, you're so annoying._**

 ** _Me: Yes, I know. But you're my favorite so you have to do the disclaimer._**

 ** _Sam: Do I have to?_**

 ** _Me: Quit whining and do it already._**

 ** _Sam: Ugh. Fine. Bianca Valdez does not own Supernatural._**

 ** _Me: Thank you, darling!_**

* * *

 **Then**

 _All eyes switched to the porch. A strange man stood there, blade at Past-Sammy's throat._

 _The man's eyes were black._

 _A footstep behind Sam and the prickle of hairs on the back of his neck alerted him to the approaching figure behind him and he whirled, but it was too late. In seconds he was in the same position as his younger self._

 _And the demon who was holding him captive was Meg._

 _"_ _My father really wants to see them. Now, instead of just one meat-suit, we've got two!"_

 _When Sammy woke up, he had no idea where he was._

 _The room was dark, the air moldy and damp. He could hear his own ragged gasps reverberating off of the walls._

 _"_ _Uh…so they're planning on possessing us? Aren't there, like, a bagillion other people they could nab? Why make a special trip just for us, and leave the rest of them?"_

 _"_ _There's a lot you don't understand," said Sam softly. "Not yet."_

 _"_ _So explain it to me," Sammy crossed his arms stubbornly. "And don't give me any of that 'you can't know about your future' crap."_

 _Sam snorted and opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment there came an ominous creaking noise and the door swung open._

 _"_ _Hello, boys. Comfortable?"_

 _"_ _Are you sure you can't find them?" Dean said to Cas for what must have been the tenth time. "I mean, little Sammy doesn't have the rib tattoos yet, so…"_

 _Cas sighed, exasperated. "As I have already told you, Dean, no. Wherever they're being kept must be warded against angels."_

 _"_ _We'll find Sam. Believe me, we will. But yelling and acting rash isn't going to help. I want him back as much as you, but the fact is we have no idea where to start. You say we should be out looking. Fine, then, we'll look. Where, exactly, are we looking? Do we have any ideas? At all?_

 _"_ _Right. So we need a plan. You know how we get a plan? We sit down and we think, but most importantly we get all the facts. We know our enemy: their objectives, their motives. What do they want? Why do they want it? Where would they keep it, and how will we find it?_

 _"_ _I know you're panicking. I know you're scared for Sam's sake. And believe me, I am too. After all, I'm the one who…" he cleared his throat. "The point is that as much as it hurts, we can't lose our heads. We have to put our feelings aside and focus on asking the right questions. If we do that, we can find your brother."_

* * *

 **Ten Minutes Previously**

Lucifer stared at himself in the mirror. He cocked his head, first to the right and then to the left. He rolled his shoulder back and popped a joint in his neck.

He lifted one hand to the blisters on the side of his borrowed face and frowned.

His vessel was burning up. Nicky boy here wasn't strong enough to contain him. There was only one person who was capable of that, and, of course, that particular individual had to be one of the most stubborn mud monkeys Lucifer had ever seen.

It didn't matter though. Sam's destiny was to become Lucifer's meat suit, and there never was any escaping destiny. He _would_ say yes, eventually. And if Lucifer was right (which he generally was when it came to things like this), he would say yes in Detroit.

In fact, if this worked the way he planned it, they'd get this done so much sooner than he'd thought.

There was a knock at the door, and Lucifer let his sense expand to discover the intruder's identity. It was a demon, one of the useless grunts that the fallen angel pretended to care about. It was quite adorable, really, to watch them bustling about with their chests puffed up and their eyes all black, acting as if they actually mattered in the grand scheme of things.

They didn't. As soon as he was finished getting rid of the humans, his 'children' would be next.

Except maybe for Meg. He rather liked Meg. He might've kept Azazel, too, had the silly old fool not gotten himself killed by the Winchesters. Oh, and Ruby. She was clever. And _obedient._ Perhaps _too_ obedient, now that he thought about it.

"Come in," he called smoothly, the door opening with one wave of his hand. The demon entered busily, mouth opened in a malicious grin.

"We've got him," it said, straightening the lines of its suit jacket. "We've got Sam Winchester."

"Both of them?"

The demon nodded eagerly.

Lucifer smiled. He was tempted, for a moment, to raise his hand and simply destroy the demon with a snap of his fingers, but he decided against it. A ruler who is loved will reign far longer than one who is feared.

Instead he turned on his heel and faced the window. "Bring them to me," he said. "I think it's time Sam Winchester opened his mind to the possibilities."

* * *

 **Now**

Sam pressed his lips together in a straight line and struggled to his feet. His younger self followed suit, and Sam could feel the tension radiating from him. Sammy was scared, something that Sam knew because, deep down, he too was frightened.

"What do you want, Meg?" he spat, glaring at the demon. She smirked and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"Didn't you hear me earlier? You've got a date with my daddy. Wouldn't want to miss it, if I were you. He's no fun when he's angry."

Sammy stirred. "Who's she talking about?" he whispered.

"Aw, look at you!" teased Meg. "Haven't told your baby self yet? You two aren't psychically linked? It's almost like Azazel didn't teach you anything!"

"Shut up, Meg," Sam growled, hands clenching into fists. "Leave him out of this."

"Leave him? You mean leave you? 'Cuz honey, that's your own personal Mini-Me."

Sam didn't deign that with a reply.

"Go away, _demon_ ," snarled Sammy ferociously. Meg made a sort of cooing noise.

"Sorry, tiger, but I can't," she said, not sounding at all sorry. "You're coming with me."

"No—" Sam started, but without any warning hands were grabbing his shoulders and muscling him out the door, Sammy behind. Sam struggled against the demons restraining him, though he knew it was pointless, and was rewarded with a sharp blow to the side of his head.

Even as the ringing filled his ears, he could hear the sound of Meg laughing as they were pulled away.

Sam sent out a silent prayer, desperate and wild and without much hope of being heard.

But it was.

* * *

Castiel felt useless. He was an angel, and the Winchesters were his friends. He was supposed to protect them. And yet somehow he'd allowed the demon Crowley to cast a spell to throw Sam into his past. Ignoring the complications to their timeline at this point, things had simply continued to go downhill from the moment the spell was cast.

Now Castiel had allowed not just one, but _two_ versions of Sam Winchester to be taken by demons. And not just any demons: demons who, it seemed, were reporting straight back to Lucifer.

Castiel blamed himself. He was too weak. If he'd just reacted a little faster, he could have stopped the demons and removed everyone involved from the situation. He could have taken his Dean and his Sam back to their time and altered the memories of all persons affected in this past so that it would have been as if none of this had ever occurred.

Unfortunately, that is not what happened. Castiel was not strong enough, and it frustrated him to no end. What was the point in being an angel if he couldn't fix even this?

Dean's voice filtered through his subconscious, registering briefly before being discarded. He was yelling about something, clearly upset. Up until this point, the angel had been listening, but now his brow furrowed and he listened hard.

It was a whisper; muffled, faint, but there nonetheless. It grew stronger the harder he listened, and with a faint prod of his grace it became clear enough to be comprehensible.

It was a prayer. Specifically for Castiel. There were very few people who would pray directly to him, and even fewer in this time. Dean obviously wasn't praying to him, so…

 _Cas!_

Castiel sat up ramrod straight and pushed his grace outwards in a rush of angelic power. His eyes glimmered faintly blue as he searched. _Sam Winchester_. He would find Sam Winchester.

Where? He'd definitely heard something. It couldn't have been his imagination because angels did not simply imagine things. Wherever Sam was, the demons must have moved him briefly from the warded area, or at least from where most of the warding was focused. It wasn't much, but it was enough for a single prayer to get through. Now, if only Castiel could manage to slip his grace through that chink in the armor, if he could followed Sam's voice and focus in on the un-warded version….but where—?

 _There._

Castiel felt the still unblemished soul of a younger Sam, surrounded by the corroded darkness that marked the presence of demons. And fainter, masked by more warding but visible once he knew where it was, the once-pure soul that was covered, now, by a thin film of darkness left over from unfortunate choices.

Then a sharp pinch that grew into a terrible pain, blinding like death and yet not as strong. Castiel's conscious was thrown abruptly back into his vessel, but not before he had a chance to recall the location, and not before he recognized the force which had repulsed him from his search.

It was the grace of another angle, twisted and tainted almost beyond recognition. It was the power of an archangel that had fallen.

Lucifer.

Firm hands gripped his arms, forming wrinkles in the sleeves of his trench coat. "Cas!" Dean was saying, and Castiel's head rung from the word that was a repeat of the previous prayer.

"Cas! Hey! Snap out of it!"

Castiel managed to gather his wits enough to see the concerned green eyes directly in his line of vision. "Augh," he moaned. Evidently extending his grace in such a manner had not been healthy for his already damaged self. It had been wrapped around him like a blanket, recharging itself and slowly healing his wounds. Overexertion was not a good idea at this point.

"Cas, what happened?" insisted Dean, roughly shaking Castiel so that his drooping head stood once again upright on his neck. "You okay?"

Castiel opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by a series of coughs which racked his frame and left blood dribbling down his chin. "Dean," he managed to wheeze out, voice hoarse.

"Whoa, pal, take it easy," said Dean, pursing his lips worriedly. Behind him, Castiel could vaguely make out Bobby Singer flipping frantically through a book, perhaps looking for something involving angels and how to heal them. Castiel knew that he wouldn't find anything; his wounds would heal over time, and that was the only thing to do about it.

"Dean," persisted Castiel, focusing his gaze back on the man before him. "I found him."

Dean froze, eyes widening ever so slightly as if he didn't dare to presume what the angel meant for fear that he would be incorrect. "Who?" he said breathlessly.

"Sam. I found Sam."

The room was stilled for one, tense moment. All eyes were on Castiel, filled with varying degrees of emotion. The Dean of the past was leaning forward hopefully, and Castiel could feel the pulse of his heart even from here.

"Cas," said Dean (his Dean) slowly, gazing at him intently. "Where?"

Castiel wrenched his eyes away from the hunter and looked to everyone in the room. Finally, he returned his vision to the green eyes before him.

"Detroit. Your brother is in Detroit."

Dean let go of him as if he'd been burned. "Detroit?" he breathed.

"Yes," said Castiel, not quite understanding Dean's sudden horror. "And Dean, there's something else."

"No." Dean backed up, both running through his hair and squeezing both sides of his head. His footsteps circled away from the angel, and he shook his head as if a fear was now confirmed. "Don't say it."

"What are you talking about?!" interrupted John, exploding with his exclusion from the topic. "What's so bad about Detroit?"

Castiel opened his mouth to reply, but Dean beat him to it. "The devil," he said, and the word dropped like a lead weight upon the room. "The devil's in Detroit."


	16. Revelations

_**Sometimes I sit down to write and I put my fingers to the keyboard and in five minutes i have a ten-page chapter.**_

 _ **Other times I sit down and I stare at it for an hour and maybe write two sentences.**_

 _ **Can you guess which one was this chapter?**_

 _ **Yeah. Well, I was power-reading Moby Dick and I had science homework and Magnus Chase came out and so did s11 (!), so basically I was busy. Busy plus poop-chapters that refuse to be written are equal to a really long wait.**_

 _ **Sorry about that. Also, I do realize how ridiculously short this chapter is, and I apologize for that. It was taking forever and it just seemed like a good place to end it so I figured I'd just go ahead and post it.**_

 ** _This may or may not be the last chapter you get until December. We'll see if I can get anything out before the end of the month. I hope so, but I make no promises, and as I mentioned earlier, November is NaNoWriMo and I shan't be writing this story during it._**

 ** _On the other hand, I am also working on a Halloween-themed SPN one-shot to be posted on the 31st, so you can look forward to that._**

 ** _Also, I'm gonna stop doing the silly little disclaimer things. They're just not worth the energy._**

* * *

 **Then**

 _"_ _Didn't you here me earlier? You've got a date with my daddy. Wouldn't want to miss it, if I were you. He's no fun when he's angry."_

 _Sammy stirred. "Who's she talking about?" he whispered._

 _"_ _Aw, look at you!" teased Meg. "Haven't told your baby self yet? You two aren't psychically linked? It's almost like Azazel didn't teach you anything!"_

 _"_ _Dean. I found him."_

 _"_ _Who?"_

 _"_ _Sam. I found Sam."_

 _"_ _Cas," said Dean (his Dean) slowly, gazing at him intently. "Where?"_

 _"_ _Detroit. Your brother is in Detroit."_

 _"_ _What are you talking about?!" interrupted John, exploding with his exclusion from the topic. "What's so bad about Detroit?"_

 _Castiel opened his mouth to reply, but Dean beat him to it. "The devil," he said, and the word dropped like a lead weight upon the room. "The devil's in Detroit."_

 **Now**

A smile split Lucifer's lips as his demons marched their captives upstairs. He could feel Sam's presence draw closer; they were connected, after all.

Everything was going according to plan. Sure, that stupid little soldier Castiel had somehow found them and tried to pry through the warding, but Lucifer had thrown him out almost immediately. And even if he _had_ managed to find them and was now on his way, Winchesters in tow, well, then, the more the merrier. And bonus, Dean would be in his hands too and he could deliver him straight to Michael.

The boys were stubborn, but Lucifer had been waiting for thousands of years for this. He _would_ fight his brother on the chosen field, and nothing could stop them.

Lucifer waved one hand and the door swung open. One of his demons stood there, fist awkwardly paused mid-knock. Quickly it put its arm down and nodded to him submissively. Then it stepped back and Lucifer grinned at the double sight of his vessel.

"Hello, Sammy!"

* * *

John stared at him. "What?" he asked, slowly, heavily.

In the exact same moment, Past-Dean said, "How?"

Dean looked from his father to his younger self, mouth curved into a steady frown. "You heard me. The devil. Satan. _Lucifer_." He turned his head towards Cas to check that he was correct, though he was certain he was. "Right?"

Cas nodded gravely and any hope that Dean had had flooded out through the soles of his feet, leaving feeling even colder than before.

"Dammit," said Bobby, sufficiently summing up all of their feelings. His next words, however, were rather more unexpected. "I shoulda known there was more. Of _course_ there was more he wasn't telling me."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Sorry?"

"Your brother told me about what you've been through. What he's done. He didn't….he didn't mention this."

"No…he wouldn't."

Past-Dean cleared his throat, and still his voice was hoarse when he spoke. "Why does the devil want Sammy?"

"He is a vessel," said Cas in his usual gravelly tones. "A very special vessel."

"A vessel?" questioned John. "So…some demon is going to possess him?"

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and leaned backwards into the table behind him. "No," he said, finally separating his eyelids. "Not just some demon. Vessels can be for angels, too, and Sammy…" he choked on his own words unable to continue. With a shake of his head he looked down at the floor and took a deep breath.

"Sam and I are apparently destined to be vessels. Apparently you and Mom were brought together so that we would be born, and our bloodline stretches back for generations. I'm supposed to be the meatsuit for the archangel Michael, and Sammy…" once again he was unable to finish, once again the words sticking in the back of his throat and refusing to be spoken. His one job was to take care of his brother, and now he was openly admitting to his father that he had failed. Not only that, he was expanding on just how terribly he'd screwed up.

But he had to say this. He had to live up the his mistakes. If he were afraid to do that, than he wasn't a man.

As bad as Cas was with human emotion, he seemed to understand, this time, that Dean was the one who had to break the news. The air was so taught that Dean was almost positive the others had anticipated his next words, but he still needed to confirm it. Steeling his nerves, he locked his gaze onto John's and finally finished the sentence.

"Sammy is Lucifer's vessel."

* * *

Sammy stared in horror at the man in front of him.

No way was he human. The evil look in his eyes, the way the door had swung open to admit them as if on cue: both were indicators of a supernatural being.

And then there were the horrible blisters that covered the man's face.

It was like he was burning up from the inside.

Sammy risked a glance up towards his older self's face and felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at the expression he found there. Sam's eyes were full of pure hatred, but more than that, they were desperate. Helpless.

Who was this being before them? The demons' 'father'? What did that—

Oh.

No way. No _freakin'_ way.

The creator of demons would be…but that wasn't real. It _couldn't_ be.

Although…if angels existed…

The man grinned at Sammy and when he spoke, it confirmed the revelation in the boy's mind. "I guess I haven't been introduced yet," he said malevolently. "The name's Lucifer."

Sammy stumbled back, shaking his head. _Meatsuit_. The demons had said he was an important _meatsuit_.

 _Lucifer's_ meatsuit?

"Go to Hell," hissed Sam, glaring daggers at the self-proclaimed devil. Lucifer didn't seem at all phased by this; in fact, he had the gall to laugh.

"That's cute, Sam, but I've been. Got the t-shirt and everything."

"What do you want with us?" demanded Sammy, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer already. Lucifer smirked at him patronizingly.

"Haven't you guessed? Sammy, I'm disappointed. Hey, having any weird headaches yet? Vivid dreams?"

Sammy stared at him, confused. "What?"

Lucifer shrugged. "Guess not, then. Oh, well." He raised one hand and snapped his fingers together, and a blinding pain split Sammy's skull. The demon's hold was loose on his arm and he wrested his hand free to crutch at his temples, squeezing his eyes shut as flashes of color filled his vision.

"You son of a b****!" yelled Sam somewhere off in the distance. Then the demon released him as Sammy fell to his knees.

 _It is night. Stars twinkle pleasantly outside, and Sammy stands in what appears to be a nursery. Before him is a crib, a mobile turning peacefully in circles. Curiously, Sammy moves forward and peers in; there is a baby sleeping there._

 _Suddenly he is brushed aside, back slamming noiselessly into the wall. He tries to cry out but is unable to make a sound, and he watches in confused horror as a dark figure appears in the nursery._

 _He doesn't enter via the window or the door. One minute the space before the crib is empty, and the next it is not._

 _He does not notice Sammy._

 _There are footsteps outside and a woman appears in the door of the nursery. She is beautiful, with long blonde hair that tangles around her shoulders, and she seems strangely familiar._

 _"_ _John?" she says sleepily, and Sammy suddenly realizes why she seems so familiar. He has seen her in pictures before, alongside a much younger, much happier Dean and a small, pinkish infant that was himself._

 _This must be Mom, which meant that the baby was Sammy. But what did the strange man want with him?_

 _"_ _Shh," hushes the man without turning around. Mary blinks, not quite awake yet._

 _"_ _Okay," she says, and leaves. Sammy's heart aches to see her go._

 _The man pulls a knife from his coat and calmly slides it across his palm, not even flinching. Sammy catches the hint of a grin in the shadows of the man's face as he squeezes his hand over the crib, letting droplets of crimson blood drop onto the baby's lips._

 _Sammy's breath catches in his throat. Whoever, or whatever, this man is, if this is real then Sammy has the man's blood inside him. Something evil is in his veins._

 _Mary appears again at the door, her foosteps heavier this time. Frantic. Eyes wild, she opens her mouth to say something to the man, but he turns around and his eyes are yellow. Whatever it was Mary would have said changes in her mouth and what comes out is a dread-laden "You."_

 _The yellow-eyed man grins. His arm flies out and Mary slams backwards into the wall with a cry. Sammy watches in horror as the man slashes his hand sideways, blood appearing on Mary's nightgown in response. Her eyes are peeled open horrifically, as if she cannot close them, and she makes no more sound, like her throat is closed and no more sound can be made._

 _Then she is sliding upwards and baby-Sammy is crying and the man is laughing, and all Sammy can do is watch with his heart in his throat and his eyes filled with tears._

 _In the last moment of the vision, staring up at the mother he never knew, she looks down into the crib and instead of fear in her eyes Sammy sees only sorrow, and an apology. She is apologizing to her baby because she knows that she is going to die._

 _And then fire roars outwards from her body and the world is awash in flames._


	17. The Tear In My Heart

**_Hey, look, guys! I wrote a chapter before the end of October! There probably won't be another one until December, and I'm sorry, so I hope you like this one._**

 ** _Several things made this chapter hard to write. Namely: five-way dialogue. Vast amounts of homework this week. Figuring out where I wanted to go with Sam and Lucifer. Getting from Sioux Falls to Detroit._**

 ** _Originally, Dean was going to ride to Sam's rescue in the Impala, all snark and badassery. Then I used my dear friend Google Maps and discovered that from Sioux Falls the Detroit is a t_** ** _welve hour drive_** ** _._** ** _Without traffic._** ** _And even with Dean's super-speeding and superpower of never getting lost, that's a little too long for my taste. AND Cas is out of juice, just to top it all off._**

 ** _So, yeah. I hope the solution I came up with is ok. Give me your thoughts in a review! I can't even express to you how much I love reviews._**

 ** _(I also wrote both a short comedic/brotherly love thing about Sam's height and a bittersweet piece about Sam and Jessica, so checking those out would make me happy. :) )_**

 ** _Chapter title comes from a twenty one pilots song of the same name._**

 ** _Without further ado..._**

* * *

 **Then**

 _"_ _Why does the devil want Sammy?"_

 _"_ _He is a vessel," said Cas in his usual gravelly tones. "A very special vessel."_

 _"_ _A vessel?" questioned John. "So…some demon is going to possess him?"_

 _Dean squeezed his eyes shut and leaned backwards into the table behind him. "No," he said, finally separating his eyelids. "Not just some demon. Vessels can be for angels too. Sam and I are apparently destined to be vessels. Apparently you and Mom were brought together so that we would be born, and our bloodline stretches back for generations. I'm supposed to be the meatsuit for the archangel Michael, and Sammy…"_

 _"_ _Sammy is Lucifer's vessel."_

 _"_ _Hey, having any weird headaches yet? Vivid dreams?"_

 _Sammy stared at him, confused. "What?"_

 _Lucifer shrugged. "Guess not, then. Oh, well." He raised one hand and snapped his fingers together, and a blinding pain split Sammy's skull. The demon's hold was loose on his arm and he wrested his hand free to clutch at his temples, squeezing his eyes shut as flashes of color filled his vision._

 _It is night. Stars twinkle pleasantly outside, and Sammy stands in what appears to be a nursery. Before him is a crib, a mobile turning peacefully in circles._

 _A dark figure appears in the nursery. The man pulls a knife from his coat and calmly slides it across his palm, not even flinching. Sammy catches the hint of a grin in the shadows of the man's face as he squeezes his hand over the crib, letting droplets of crimson blood drop onto the baby's lips._

 _Something evil is in his veins._

 **Now**

When Sammy awoke he was curled into a ball on the floor, hands wrapped around his head. Tears streaked his face, and with every blink he saw flashes of red—afterimages of the fire.

Sam was struggling against the demons restraining him, eyes wide in horror. Upon seeing that Sammy had awoken, however, he grew very still.

"You back with us?" said Lucifer. Sammy looked at him; he was grinning. A deep, boiling hatred awoke in his gut, and his vision went red with a vicious anger that he didn't know he was capable of.

It scared him.

"Wh—" his voice came out as a croak and he swallowed hard. "What did you do to me?"

"Nothing much," Lucifer said. "Just activated your heritage. See, in _this_ time, Azazel is still alive and kicking, so I can just snap my fingers and make his blood boil in your veins. Moosey here, however," he indicated Sam. "Is a little trickier, but I know how to get in."

Sammy frowned, confused, as one of the demons took out a knife and slit his palm. His reaction was vastly different from Sam's, whose eyes widened in abject terror.

"No!" he yelled as the demon advanced on him. "Don't!"

"Wait," drawled Lucifer, and the demon paused, glancing at him. He grinned. "Just a small taste. We can't have him killing anyone, now can we? Not yet, anyway."

Sammy watched, frightened, as the demon lifted his hand up towards Sam's mouth, the hunter struggling and cringing away from it the entire time. Then he went oddly still as the palm came into contact with his mouth. His eyes were wild, and yet there was something else in them. Almost a longing, like somehow he _wanted_ this.

God, what _happened_ in the future?

Sam stiffened suddenly, as if a jolt of electricity had been run through him. Something seemed to click in his hazel eyes, turning them a shade darker, a touch wilder.

Then it was over. The demon stepped back and Sam stumbled slightly, kept from falling only by those demons still restraining him. His eyes shot towards Lucifer, daggers in his gaze.

"What—" Sammy finally found his voice, though it wavered as he spoke. "What was that?"

Sam glanced at him, daggers turning off like a switch and immediately replaced with terrible sadness. "Bad," he choked out as he shook his head. "Bad."

Sammy still wasn't sure what that meant, but at this point he didn't really want to know.

"Everybody's blood boiling?" said Lucifer. His grin widened and he turned to the older Sam, looking for all the world like a child begging candy. "Hey, you ready to say yes yet?"

Sam glared at him. "Never."

Lucifer frowned. "Shame," he pouted. Then he turned eagerly on little Sammy. "How 'bout you, pal?"

"I-I don't…what are you talking about?"

"Shut up," growled Sam in almost the same moment, and Sammy could almost see the fiery hot rage inside him. "Just shut up."

Lucifer glanced at him, unimpressed. "Well, that's rude," he said lazily. "I'm trying to have a discussion, here." He turned to the demons and gestured towards the door. "Take him back down. I want to talk to little Sammy here. Alone."

Sammy's eyes widened and he stared up at the devil, fear coursing through him.

"Whatever he tells you, don't listen!" shouted Sam as he was pulled from the room, fighting the entire time. "No matter what, you have to say no!"

"What?" mumbled Sammy, confused and scared and hurting. He missed Dean. He wanted Dean. Dean would fix this. If Dean were here, he could make it all better.

But Dean wasn't here.

"Say no!" cried Sam. One of the demons hit him over the head and he crumpled, unconscious, and was dragged out.

Sammy turned back to Lucifer, terrified, as the door slammed shut behind them.

* * *

 _Sammy is Lucifer's vessel._

The words rang through Dean's head in a constant loop. _Sammy. Lucifer. Vessel_.

Sammy. _His_ Sammy.

Dean wanted to scream and rage and throw things, but he couldn't because that wouldn't help get Sam pack.

How was it possible that their luck was really that bad?

"Are…are you sure?" The words slipped from his mouth of their own will, and he bit his tongue to keep from going on. _How do you know? And why Sammy? And does that mean that my brother is now the devil?_

"Yes," said Castiel gravely, pityingly. Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. No. No, this couldn't be happening.

He couldn't take it. He had to know. "So Sammy's possessed by the devil?" His vision blurred slightly, tears stinging at the back of his eyes, and he fiercely blinked them away.

"No," said Future-Dean, not looking at him. "Um…" he cleared his throat. "Angels can't just take vessels. They need permission."

"Who in their right minds would _let_ themselves be possessed?" said John, disbelieving, even as Dean was flooded with relief because Sammy was okay. _Sammy's going to be okay._

"Generally righteous people," said Castiel. "Faithful, religious people. And…" his voice took on a slightly guiltier tone. "We can be very persuasive."

"Yer possessing someone?" glared Bobby. Castiel nodded sheepishly.

"Jimmy Novak. He's a good man. He knew what he was doing."

It was obvious that the two older hunters were not satisfied, but they let it go grudgingly.

"But it's alright, then," Dean blurted out. All eyes turned to him and he looked between them beseechingly. " 'Cuz Sammy wouldn't say yes, right? He wouldn't do that."

Future-Dean grimaced. "Like Cas said," he uttered. "Angels can be very persuasive."

"Then we need to get to him!" Dean cried, pulling himself straight. "Now! What are we sitting around for?"

Bobby let out a sort of tired sigh. "And just how're we supposed to do that?" he said, not unkindly. "I don't know if you've realized, but Detroit ain't exactly next door."

"Castiel can take us!" said Dean, trying desperately to stay afloat. One look at the angel, however, proved that he wasn't taking anyone anywhere.

John put a big, warm hand on his shoulder. "He's fried, Dean," he said softly, efficiently destroying the last of Dean's hopes.

Future-Dean suddenly jolted upright as if a thought had just occurred to him. "I know what we're going to do," he said tersely.

"Well?" said Bobby. "Spit it out, boy!"

"Angels aren't the only things that can teleport. Demons can, too."

"Yeah?" said Dean disconsolately. "Aren't demons sort of the problem here?"

Future-Dean's green eyes swung around to meet him, glistening with reckless bravado. "Not all of them."

Castiel's own blue orbs widened and he stood, making a grab at Future-Dean's arm. "Dean," he said urgently. "No."

"Then how, Cas?! He's our only shot! Your batteries are fried, and I sure as hell ain't calling in any more of your angel pals!"

"Who?" cried Dean, unable to stand it. "What are you talking about?"

"No," insisted Castiel. "No, this is a terrible idea—"

Future-Dean held up a hand to cut him off. "The demon who switched our Sams in the first place," he said, his voice low and his words weighty. "Crowley."

* * *

Mildew.

Blood.

Damp wood.

Blood.

Dust.

Blood.

Wet plaster.

Blood.

Sam's head pounded and he didn't bother sitting up, just lay there and let his eyes stare up at the dimly lit ceiling. His pulse pounded in his ears, each beat of his heart sending the poison through his veins, unholy fire that reached past the physical and scalded his soul.

 _Monster._

There was a demon outside the cellar, standing guard. Sam could smell it. Smell the tainted blood, metallic and sulfuris and addictive like a drug.

 _Freak._

He'd thought that he was done with this. When God had pulled him and Dean from that church, cleaned his blood and purified his essence, all he'd felt was relief that he was clean now. That was all done with.

 _Unclean._

Then they'd come across Famine and it all fell apart. He'd resisted it as fiercely as he could, but ever cell in his body cried out in desperate thirst for the blood that was his poison, so much so that he'd chained himself to the bathroom sink and nearly bitten his tongue out to keep from screaming.

Then the demons had found him.

 _Abomination._

They'd killed Famine and driven back to Bobby's. They were silent the entire time, Cas in the backseat peering quietly out the window. When they'd gotten there, Sam had stumbled on his own down to the panic room and let them tie him to the bed.

At that point he wasn't able to hold back the screams, fierce and guttural like a wild animal clawing its way up his throat.

His whole being on fire, shouting for _more_ and Dean's voice telling him things that hurt far worse than any physical torture.

 _"_ _You're a monster, Sammy."_

And here he was again. Power coursing through him, exhilarating and intoxicating, and as much as he struggled against it, it felt amazing. This was why he'd continued to do it with Ruby, even though he'd known it was wrong.

 _"_ _It scares the hell out of me. I mean, I feel it inside of me. I... I wish to god I could stop."_

That's what he'd told Chuck Shurley, the man who knew the things that Sam had never wanted anyone to know. And he'd meant it, truly meant it when he said that, but there was nothing he could do because he _couldn't_ stop.

He couldn't. As proven by the fact that he kept getting dragged back down.

What's worse than literally being dragged down by the devil?

Sam missed the days when his mission was finding Dad. Then, of course, he'd thought things couldn't possibly be any worse, but he'd been wrong. He knew that now. Now there were demons and angels and it was hard to say which was worse.

He thought back to the first time he'd met an angel. He'd opened his motel door to find two strange men, who Dean claimed were angels.

Heart filled with awe, he'd eagerly greeted Castiel with a sort of reverential excitement. This deceivingly mundane-looking man was not only an angel of the Lord, but also the one responsible for his brother being alive.

And Castiel had looked at him like he was a puzzle and spoken like he was mud on a shoe.

 _"_ _Sam Winchester. The boy with the demon blood."_

Because, when you came down to it that was all there was to Sam. Important only because of his monstrosities. Insignificant but for the dirtiness of his soul.


	18. Speak Of The Devil

_**Hey, guys! Guess what? I'm alive!**_

 ** _Wow, it's been a while. I hope those of you who celebrate it had a good Thanksgiving and will continue to have a good holiday season! I also hope you haven't completely lost interest in this story. It's not over yet!_**

 ** _Also, who else thinks that season eleven is AWESOME? I do. I've been fangirling REALLY hard. It's probably unhealthy. Especially since I'm also fangirling over Doctor Who and Captain America: Civil War and Star Wars: The Force Awakens. Also Jessica Jones and Firefly, which I've both started. GAH._**

 ** _I managed to write 30k words of a novel and I still have no idea what it's about or where it's going. And it's my own freaking novel. *sighs loudly*_**

 ** _Oh, one more thing. We hit 100 reviews! Thank you guys so much! I love you all! In honor of this, I shall be accepting prompts. My favorite will become the first chapter in a string of one-shots based off of prompts from you guys and other readers. Any of you have an idea for me? Put it in a review! If yours isn't picked first, don't worry, there's a very good chance I'll come to it somewhere amidst the prompt-shots. Yup! Send em my way!_**

 ** _So, yeah. This chapter is a bit on the short side, and I could've made it longer quite easily, but I felt like I should just bundle it off to you guys. Here it is!_**

* * *

 **Then**

 _"_ _Sammy is Lucifer's vessel."_

 _"_ _Hey, having any weird headaches yet? Vivid dreams?"_

 _Sammy stared at him, confused. "What?"_

 _Lucifer shrugged. "Guess not, then. Oh, well." He raised one hand and snapped his fingers together, and a blinding pain split Sammy's skull. The demon's hold was loose on his arm and he wrested his hand free to clutch at his temples, squeezing his eyes shut as flashes of color filled his vision._

 _It is night. Stars twinkle pleasantly outside, and Sammy stands in what appears to be a nursery. Before him is a crib, a mobile turning peacefully in circles._

 _A dark figure appears in the nursery. The man pulls a knife from his coat and calmly slides it across his palm, not even flinching. Sammy catches the hint of a grin in the shadows of the man's face as he squeezes his hand over the crib, letting droplets of crimson blood drop onto the baby's lips._

 _Something evil is in his veins._

 _"_ _Hey, you ready to say yes yet?"_

 _Sam glared at him. "Never."_

 _Lucifer frowned. "Shame," he pouted. Then he turned eagerly on little Sammy. "How 'bout you, pal?"_

 _"_ _Take him back down. I want to talk to little Sammy here. Alone."_

 _"_ _Whatever he tells you, don't listen! No matter what, you have to say no!"_

 **Now**

"Sammy," said Lucifer, his lips split into a sadistic yet deceivingly friendly grin beneath eyes that glinted with a paradoxically cold flame, tongues of fiery ice reaching out into the atmosphere around him. Sammy shivered.

"Leave me alone," he whimpered, covering his head with his hands. This is wrong; he should be brave. Dad would want him to be brave. More importantly, _Dean_ would want it.

He couldn't be brave. He wasn't like them. He wasn't even like the man who he was, supposedly, going to become.

Sammy closed his eyes and swallowed his tears. He just wanted a normal life. Was that really too much to ask for?

"Aw, come on, Sammy boy," whined the Devil, crouching down in front of him and placing a chill hand on Sammy's shoulder. He flinched away violently, or tried to, but Lucifer's grip was strong as steel and cold as ice and Sammy was unable to escape it.

The hand moved to his chin, lifting his head up to stare into the eyes that were a maelstrom of anger and hatred, older than anything Sammy had ever seen and yet filled with a petty need, a childish longing for his favorite toy, removed from his grasp and placed just out of reach. He stands, within the metaphor, upon tiptoe, fingers just barely brushing it from where it rests on the shelf. Soon he'll realize that all he needs to reach it is a stepstool. Then he will have it in his clutches.

Sammy shivered as he realized that, in that particular metaphor, he was the toy.

"So here's the deal," said Satan, still smiling. "I'm lonely. Real lonely. My Daddy kicked me out because I wasn't good enough for him, and when I turned to my brother for help, he wouldn't look at me. He was too loyal to dear ol' dad. Sound familiar?" He waggled an eyebrow meaningfully, and Sammy could do nothing but shake his head. No, _no_. He had nothing in common with this monster.

"Years and years of being locked in my room because I dared to express my own opinions." Lucifer was standing at this point, pacing back in forth before Sammy as he recited his monologue. "And I got to thinking. What kind of father won't let his son think for himself? What kind of father subjects his child to eternal torment?

"Now, I know you're a bit of a believer, aren'tcha?" he continued, glancing at Sammy. "But have you ever thought about who you're praying to? I mean, what makes God so great? Has he ever actually answered your prayers? Has he helped out at all, with anything? Has he ended war? Has he cured all disease? No, of course he hasn't, because he's just another deadbeat dad. I _know_ you can sympathize."

Sammy shook his head once again, frantically trying to block out the thoughts that traitorously slunk around in his mind. "No, my father loves me and Dean. He's not…" he trailed off, thinking of all those birthdays Dad had forgotten, all those Christmases he'd missed. "My Dad is a hero!" he cried, unwilling to allow his thoughts to take form.

Lucifer closed his eyes and let out a small laugh. "Right," he said, voice laden with sarcasm. "Such a hero. But I wasn't finished." He placed a finger to Sammy's lips, shushing him and smiling slightly as the hunter reeled backwards.

"So years spent surrounded by whiny, power-hungry demons, all trying to get in my good graces. And I played along because, hey, you're all alone, you take what company you can get.

"But I didn't want to stay locked up forever. Would you?" Lucifer shook his head. "Of course not. So I started planning. Azazel comes along, right, and I get to telling him, 'your daddy wants out. Your daddy has a plan. Go around and find the special children. Bleed into their mouths. Make your blood flow in their veins. They'll get stronger, and you'll make them fight, except the truth is that they'll really, fundamentally _want_ it. And the one who survives, that's my vessel."

Sammy's eyes were wide. _Bleed into their mouths_. His mind flashed to the…vision, for lack of a better word. The man in the nursery, the red blood dripping onto the baby— _Sammy's_ —lips.

The man was a demon? Then...Sammy had demonic blood _in_ him? The rage inside him when Lucifer snapped his fingers, the fear on his older self's face as the split palm was brought towards his face, the hunted, angry look in his eyes…Sammy felt like crying because _it all made sense_. And if it made sense, then Lucifer wasn't lying, and if he wasn't lying then…then…

"My vessel! My pal. My party outfit, my best friend forever." Lucifer winked at Sammy. "That's you, by the way." He crossed to the window and blew on the glass, ice spreading from his breath across the dirt-covered pane. "So I pop out of my cage, after all these years, and is my vessel waiting for me? No, he isn't. I have to settle for _this_." He gestures contemptuously at his body, lip curling in distaste. A hand ghosts up to finger the bloody scabs on his face, picking one off and flicking it into the corner. "Nick is useless. Inferior. He's not enough to contain me, not like you are. It's like putting on a suit that's tailored just a little too small. All the seams are splitting.

"But _you_ …you are my true vessel, Sammy. Tailored perfectly. Just my size. I mean, I prefer you when you're older because at the moment you're _physically_ on the small side, but I'll make do. You're still my bestie, right?"

Sammy was once again reminded of a small child. He refused to reply.

Lucifer rolled his eyes. "Oh, come _on_ , Sam. Don't be such a pouter. You'll learn to accept me! It's really not all that bad. And you hardly have to do anything! Just say 'yes'. That's all, really! Say yes and we can be forever. You've always wanted to help people, right? Well, after we've won, those useless little feather-brains won't be in control anymore, and we can help people all we want. How does that sound?"

"No," said Sammy firmly, though his voice wobbled a bit. Lucifer sighed a long-suffering sigh.

"Sam," he said, exasperated. "Really. Be reasonable."

"No!"

"Alright," growled Lucifer. "Fine. Have it your way." He snapped his fingers and one of the demons appeared in the room, looking somewhat flustered at being summoned with so little warning. "Go get the other one."

The demon looked confused. "What other one?" he asked nervously. "Sir."

Lucifer rolled his eyes again. "See," he said, glancing at Sammy meaningfully. "This is what I'm talking about. How come none of you have brains?!" He wrapped a fist against the demons skull and it flinched backwards.

"Get Dean, moron!" yelled Lucifer. "The younger one! Apparently _Samuel_ here needs incentive!"

Sammy's heart dropped like a lead weight, disappearing from his chest and making an unwelcomed appearance in his stomach. "No…" he gasped, breath catching in his throat. "No!" He lunged forward towards the demon but it had already disappeared, presumably to capture his brother.

 _Dean…no…Dean…_

Lucifer shrugged at him, eyes dancing with mirth. "You could still say yes."

Sammy swallowed, unable to think properly. He could say yes. He could do that, save Dean from this monster. But just because Lucifer _said_ he would let Dean live was no guarantee that he'd follow through on his word. And what would Sammy's big brother think if he came back and found that Sammy hadn't been strong enough?


	19. Smoke and Mirrors

**_Happy Holidays, whatever you celebrate! (I personally am an atheist Jew who celebrates Christmas, so my house is lit up like a tree while also featuring several menorahs, and yes, it's a tad confusing, but whatever. My dad was raised Jewish, my mom was raised Christian, I was raised neither. Religion is weird. There are just too many.)_**

 ** _Okay, so, anyway, I wrote you a chapter! And my eyes are about to fall out of my skull because I spent the last hour typing this and it's after midnight...again, whatever._**

 ** _Hey, I only got one prompt. Any more? Come on, guys, pitch me an idea! If you don't, I'll have to come up with a one-shot of my own and build from there._**

 ** _Hope you enjoy this chapter! I introduced another character...let's see who can figure out who it is. :)_**

 ** _Title to chapter comes from both a song and an album by Imagine Dragons._**

* * *

 **Then**

 _"_ _I don't know if you've realized, but Detroit ain't exactly next door."_

 _"_ _Castiel can take us!"_

 _"_ _Angels aren't the only things that can teleport. Demons can, too."_

 _"_ _Dean," Cas said urgently. "No."_

 _"_ _Then how, Cas?! He's our only shot! Your batteries are fried, and I sure as hell ain't calling in any more of your angel pals!"_

 _"_ _Who? What are you talking about?"_

 _"_ _No," insisted Castiel. "No, this is a terrible idea—"_

 _Future-Dean held up a hand to cut him off. "The demon who switched our Sams in the first place," he said, his voice low and his words weighty. "Crowley."_

 _"_ _No!"_

 _"_ _Alright," growled Lucifer. "Fine. Have it your way." He snapped his fingers and one of the demons appeared in the room, looking somewhat flustered at being summoned with so little warning. "Go get the other one."_

 _"_ _What other one?"_

 _"_ _Get Dean, moron!" yelled Lucifer. "The younger one! Apparently Samuel here needs incentive!"_

 **Now**

The ingredients ignited, tongues of flame curling up and around the sides of the bowl, reaching higher than any natural fire had the right to reach and obscuring the spellcaster's vision.

When they died down, there was a man in the room who had not been there previously. He was short, pudgy, and dressed in a perfectly-tailored black suit. In one hand he held a very nice, very expensive pen; in the other was a very, very long scroll.

His eyes were red, the color of blood, and he frowned down at the Devil's Trap at his feet. Then he blinked, eyes returning to a more natural, brownish hue, and looked up at the motley group that had summoned him.

"Well," he drawled, tongue slipping between his teeth with practiced ease as, with a flourish, he disappeared the pen and the scroll. "I can't say I've ever been summoned in a dusty basement before."

His eyes finished their perusal of his distasteful surroundings and he moved on to inspecting his summoners, nothing in his expression betraying his surprise at being summoned by name. (He was fairly well-known among the demon circles, but humans? This was new.)

Two older men, one graying and clad in a ball cap, one with dark hair and haunted eyes. A younger man and a teenage boy with the same intense expression and an inner glow that is identical in every way. Their souls? Crowley (for that was his name) peered harder and nodded to himself. They had the same soul; they were, in fact, the same person.

Odd.

Also probably why they called him here. However this had happened, presumably they would be wanting a spell to return the older one to the future, and who better to find such a thing than a crossroads—

Oh.

Crowley's eyes widened as he rested his gaze upon the final occupant of the room, and he had to take a step backwards to study himself. His shocked look was returned by a pair blazingly blue eyes peering out from a deceptively mild face.

"Angel."

The angel blinked, looking somewhat disgusted, as if Crowley were a rather hideous spider that had just been squashed and was now stuck to the bottom of his shoe. The king of the crossroads repressed a shiver that would, of course, be completely unacceptable. Appearances had to be upheld, especially when one was standing in a Devil's Trap.

"Hey!" Crowley reluctantly tore his gaze from the only true threat in the room to look at young man with the green eyes. Some small part of his brain noted that the man was rather squirrel-ish and decided to dub him accordingly.

Squirrel glared at him from beneath a pair of very fine eyebrows (what? Crowley wasn't blind. And, contrary to popular belief, being demonic did not stop him from appreciating beauty, especially when it came in the form of facial hair), hand clasped around the hilt of a knife of such ridiculously small proportions that Crowley would have laughed were he not so professional. As it were, the corners of his mouth twitched faintly upwards.

"You see that?" asked Squirrel, gesturing downwards with the blade in indication of the Trap. "You're stuck, so, you're under our control. You have to do whatever we tell you to." He smirked as if he'd said something especially witty and it took all of Crowley's restraint to not roll his eyes.

"Well," said Crowley, studiously ignoring the blazing sapphires that were the angel's gaze and instead focusing on the second-most-interesting person, who just so happened to be precisely his usual prey. Desperate, overly-confident, and not particularly bright. The perfect combination. "I can't say this is how my deals usually go, but nevermind. Is there any reason you called me here or are you just browsing?"

The man in the trucker cap leaned towards Squirrel with a frown on his face. "This is a terrible idea."

Squirrel shook him off, not moving his gaze from Crowley for even a moment. "You got a better one?"

Trucker didn't look happy but he didn't say anything else, either. Crowley smiled to himself. The desperate ones were always the most fun. You could push them much farther than you could the ordinary greedy type; you could drive them straight off a cliff befre you gave them what they wanted, if they were desperate enough.

The king of the crossroads was an excellent judge of character, and, looking at those around him, he knew that these were the kind driven by true desperation.

He grinned.

"So," he said, clasping his hands in front of him and rolling back onto the heels of his carefully polished leather shoes. "What can I do you for?"

* * *

He sat upon a mountain, snowflakes falling around him like tiny blessing upon his skin. He was listening; he was watching.

"Why are they so cold, Mama?" asked the little girl in the tiny house below, the door hanging open and spilling warm light into the darkness surrounding it.

"The snowflakes?"

The girl nodded.

"Well, they're tiny angels," said the grandmother, leaning against the cabin door and inhaling the fresh scent of the pines. "They fly down on tiny wings and kiss your cheeks. It's not cold you're feeling; it's pure bliss."

The little girl smiled and picked up a handful of snow. She brought it to her mouth and kissed it gently. "I hope you're not too cold, angels," she whispered. "You can come inside if you want."

The grandmother and the mother exchange fond glances, the mother shaking her head with the faintest smile on her lips. "Alright, that's enough," she said. "It _is_ cold out here. How about some cocoa?"

The little girl beamed and turned towards the doorway, snow falling from her fingers as the 'angels' were forgotten. Her silent watcher flinched slightly as it hit the ground, though he knew it was completely ridiculous. Snow was just frozen precipitation, nothing more.

It still hurt, though, how easily a thing could be forgotten.

He gazed up at the sky, frowning. To be forgotten was a painful thing, he knew better than most. But it couldn't be helped.

In the house below, the grandmother began to tell the stories of her country: the old Norse traditions of gods and giants and serpents large enough to wrap around the world. She told of Ragnarök to come, and how at the ending of the world, the serpent would awaken and there was nothing to be done to stop it.

The watcher chuckled inwardly at the irony. If only she knew.

"That's silly, grandma. Everyone knows that snakes aren't _that_ b—"

She froze. Everything froze, snowflakes hanging in midair. Everything, that is, but the watcher. His eyes widened and he climbed to his feet, gently reaching out to prod one of the tiny crystals.

It didn't move. Time was locked in a sheet of ice, cracks spreading slowly across it like spider webs, each splinter radiating out from a single point.

He cocked his head, listening, focusing his senses in upon the epicenter of the disturbance. In the blink of an eye (or perhaps an eternity, time being in its current state) he was gone.

Someone had broken something, and it needed fixing. Was he the one for the job?

Perhaps. It rather depended on his mood. He hadn't helped out in a very, _very_ long time.

* * *

"Oh, come on. Cat got your tongue?" Crowley raised one dark eyebrow at the small gathering before him, somewhat impatient with their apparent reluctance. "Are we making a deal or not?"

 _That_ got them moving. The angel moved forward with inhuman speed, blade drawn and hand clutching the fabric of Crowley's tailored Italian suit. "No," it growled, blue eyes blazing. "No deals."

Crowley swallowed thickly, unable to tear his gaze from the being before him. "Uh…you, uh…generally this works a certain way, you know, you call me, we bargain, we both leave happy? Right? Or what do you expect to happen here?"

"No deals," insisted the angel, raising its blade menacingly.

"Cas!" barked Squirrel. "That's enough!"

Crowley had never been happier to hear a human speak. He nodded at the angel persuasively, eyebrows lifting and corners of mouth twitching upwards in a nervous smile. The angel made a face of pure displeasure, but did as instructed.

Huh. Interesting. This human had some amount of control over an angel. Did he even realize the implications? Crowley sincerely doubted it, although he was almost positive he could find a way to use this for his own means.

He was the king of the crossroads. He could make anything work for him. Even this angel.

Speaking of which, if a person had access to an angel, what did they want with a demon?

"Ok, here's how this works," said Squirrel, twirling his knife between calloused fingers. "You help us out, we let you go with your life. Sound fair?"

Crowley sighed loudly. "Hm. Not so much. See, you're threatening to kill me, yes? Well, I happen to know that this particular threat is completely empty."

Squirrel crossed the room quickly, holding the knife to Crowley's heart and revealing the Kurdish runes etched into the blade. A warning flicked off in the back of the demon's mind, warning him that this was a weapon that could kill him.

Good to know.

"Oh, yeah?" challenged Squirrel in a low growl. "Why's that?"

"Because," said Crowley coolly, placing a cautious hand on the knife and pushing it away from his chest, grimacing slightly as it took a thread with it. Damnit. He liked this suit. "You only called me because you need me. If you need me, that means you're out of options. I'm your last bet. And I'm supposed to believe you'd mess that up just to prove a bloody point?"

Behind the bowl used for the summoning spell, Little-Squirrel twitched uncertainly. Crowley spared him a glance, smirking victoriously.

"Am I wrong?" he said it slowly, words dripping from his tongue like droplets of lead.

Squirrel's face was carefully composed into a stony mask, only his eyes belying the anger he held inside. For a moment, Crowley thought the man might stab him out of sheer frustration, but he did not. Squirrel, furiously, backed off.

"Well, then," Crowley said primly, brushing off the front of his suit. "This has been fun, but let's get down to the real busine—"

There was a crash. A shout. A gunshot. The smell of sulfur.

A demon paused with its arm wrapped around Little-Squirrel's neck. It stared at Crowley, eyes flashing back.

"Crowley," it said. It might have said more, but Little-Squirrel bit its arm and it seemed to remember its reason for being here. As Squirrel slashed his knife towards its back, it disappeared and the blade met only air.

The demon was gone. Little-Squirrel was gone. Trucker let out a muffled groan. The angel closed its eyes in an unreadable emotion. The dark-haired man put a hand on the tabletop for support, eyes filled with pain.

And Squirrel stood in the silhouette of where the demon had moments ago stood, knife held loosely in his hand and breathing heavy.

"No," growled Dark-Hair. He swiped a hand across the table, sending books and spell ingredients plummeting to the floor. "No!"

"Hm," said Crowley tactfully. "I feel like I'm missing something here. Anyone care to explain?"


	20. Shattered Glass

_**I'm back, and with a long'un. Sorry about the wait.**_

 _ **Ok, so guess what? I made an account on AO3! I'm**_ Winchester_In_The_TARDIS_Of_Marvels _**there, because I don't really like**_ Bianca Valdez _**all that much. I've got a couple stories there, all of which were already posted here, but just so you guys are aware.**_

 ** _I'm gonna warn you, though, this chapter starts out fine and ends really, really dark. By dark I mean depressing and violent, and fairly graphic with more detailed descriptions of violence than any in this story before. Hopefully it shouldn't be a problem, but I want to make sure you know before you get there._**

 ** _I don't thank you guys enough, so I'll do it now. Thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, followed, favorited, or even glanced at this. Whether you've been here from the start or have only joined us now, thank you so much for wasting your time on my brain's crazed word-vomit. I really, really appreciate it, and every time I get a review I just have to smile._**

 ** _Well, that's all for now. Enjoy!_**

* * *

 **Then**

 _"_ _No!"_

 _"_ _Alright," growled Lucifer. "Fine. Have it your way." He snapped his fingers and one of the demons appeared in the room, looking somewhat flustered at being summoned with so little warning. "Go get the other one."_

 _"_ _What other one?"_

 _"_ _Get Dean, moron!" yelled Lucifer. "The younger one! Apparently Samuel here needs incentive!"_

 _There was a crash. A shout. A gunshot. The smell of sulfur._

 _A demon paused with its arm wrapped around Little-Squirrel's neck. It stared at Crowley, eyes flashing back._

 _"_ _Crowley," it said. It might have said more, but Little-Squirrel bit its arm and it seemed to remember its reason for being here. As Squirrel slashed his knife towards its back, it disappeared and the blade met only air._

 _Sammy frowned, confused, as one of the demons took out a knife and slit his palm. His reaction was vastly different from Sam's, whose eyes widened in abject terror._

 _Sammy watched, frightened, as the demon lifted his hand up towards Sam's mouth, the hunter struggling and cringing away from it the entire time. Then he went oddly still as the palm came into contact with his mouth. His eyes were wild, and yet there was something else in them. Almost a longing, like somehow he wanted this._

 _"_ _What was that?"_

 _Sam glanced at him, daggers turning off like a switch and immediately replaced with terrible sadness. "Bad," he choked out as he shook his head. "Bad."_

 **Now**

One minute he was in Bobby's cellar. The next, there was a forearm pressed into his throat with more strength than was natural.

His nose filled with the smell of rotten eggs, and his vision filled with smoke. There was a sensation somewhere between flying and falling, and the ground dived away from his feet.

Then it returned, his sneakers slamming into creaky wooden planks. The arm eased just enough that he could breath again, and his vision cleared.

A room, plaster walls splashed with mildew and the scent of dust in the surrounding air. There was a single window, glass coated with grime and frost, the latter curling around the edges in unnatural swirling patterns that seemed to grow before his eyes.

" _Dean!"_

Immediately his gaze switched to the source of the voice, flying from the window and towards the two other figures in the room. One was a man, eyes gleaming with evil and dancing with childish glee. The other was a small boy, crumpled on the floor with an expression of pain and despair.

Dean's heart skipped a beat and he stopped breathing.

 _Sammy_.

Oh, god, what had happened to cause the look on his brother's face?

He pulled towards his brother, halted only by the tightening of the demon's hold. Dean was having none of that, though. Nothing would keep him from his brother. He jammed his elbow backwards into the demon's nose, not even flinching as he heard the crunch of bones or felt the splatter of warm blood on his skin.

Normally, he would be considerably less calm about this, but Sammy needed him and nothing else mattered.

Dean pried himself from the demon's clutches and fell to the floor, practically sliding until he was kneeling beside his brother. "Sammy," he breathed, hands reaching out to feel up and down Sammy's arms in an attempt to seek out any injury that might have been inflicted. He peered into the frightened hazel eyes, trying to judge exactly how much reassurance was required.

"Dean," whimpered Sammy, and the young hunter's heart sank. They'd done something to him. Shown him something that he shouldn't have seen. Dean could see it in the tearstreaks on the round face, in the trembling of the slender hands.

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy," he breathed, wrapping his arms around his brother and pulling him close. "I'm here. Everything's gonna be okay."

"Aw."

Dean looked up at the sickeningly sweet coo to see the strange man gazing at them with perverted fondness, hands clasped before his chest. Upon seeing that Dean was looking at him, the man rolled his eyes and made a 'go-on' sort of gesture.

"Sorry. Continue. It's adorable." His tongue caught between his teeth in a grin that sent shivers down Dean's spine, but he ignored it and stood, pulling Sammy up with him.

"Who are you?" he challenged, his false bravado betrayed by the slight wobble in his voice. "What do you want?"

The man's grin shrunk to a small smile, lips closed so that only the corners poked upwards. "Oh, Dean-o," he said. "I think you know."

Dean's mind ran through every likelihood in the space of a second and settled on one, unavoidable answer. His heart skipped a beat and he squeezed Sammy tighter. This couldn't be happening. Why was this happening? What could he have done to deserve this? And, most importantly, why did his brother, so young and innocent, why'd he have to face this?

"Lucifer."

The devil's smile grew to show his teeth. "There you go," he said encouragingly. "Ya know, my siblings don't see it, but you're actually not as stupid as you'd think."

"What do you want?" Dean repeated angrily. Fear would get him nowhere, not in this situation. Not with this monster.

Lucifer rolled his eyes. "And then you ask things like that. Come _on,_ Dean. I bet if you try real hard, you can figure that one out too."

 _Sam is Lucifer's vessel_.

Sammy's presence here made perfect sense. The devil wanted him to consent to being worn around like a party dress, which was not absolutely not going to happen, not while Dean was around. But Lucifer must know that, so why…

Oh.

Dean glanced down at his brother and was met with a pair of teary hazel eyes, spread wider in the face than should be humanly possible, and he knew. They were brothers, and they'd do anything to protect each other.

Anything.

Dean, impossibly, held Sammy even closer, pressing the boy into his chest so hard that he let out an almost imperceptible squeak of protest. Lucifer smirked amusedly.

"Well?" he drawled.

"You can't have him," ground out Dean, white-hot rage beating in his chest beside unbearable love and need to protect. "You _won't_ have him." He lowered his gaze back to his brother and somehow managed a smile. "I'll protect you, Sammy. I'll always protect you."

* * *

" _Damnit!_ " yelled John, both hands clutching at his hair and his breathing heavy. "God _damnit!_ "

Dean stood where his younger self had previously stood and swallowed hard. "Son of a b****," he breathed. His hand loosened around the hilt of the demon blade and it clattered to the floor, nicking the rough-hewn wood when it landed.

Crowley made a humming noise. "Yes? No? Can I get an answer?"

John's head whipped towards him, eyes blazing. In seconds he was lunging for the knife where it had fallen, and in another blink of an eye he was inside the Devil's Trap, one hand clutching the front of Crowley's suit and the other pressing the tip of the blade to his throat. Dean knew he should stop his father, but somehow he didn't have it in him.

He was tired. So, so very tired.

The king of the crossroads blinked. "Hm," he said. "Weren't we _just_ in this position?" He nodded at Cas, recalling the angel's own spur of anger.

"You son of a b****," growled John. "You did this, didn't you? You tipped them off."

"John," Bobby warned. "We still need him."

"Oh, yes, that's right! You _do_ , don't you? So really it's bad planning on your part to be aggravating a possible—"

John shook him hard, silencing his words. "Shut up!" he shouted. "Where'd you take him?!"

"Dad…" said Dean flatly. He was ignored.

"I didn't," said Crowley with an unflappable air. "I'm not working with them."

"Oh yeah?" challenged John. "Then who _do_ you work for?"

Crowley seemed to ponder this for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Honestly, I'm mostly freelance. Makes it easier to claw your way to power."

"What sort of power?" questioned Bobby, his serious demeanor shattered momentarily by an expression of curiosity.

"He's the king of the crossroads," said Cas distractedly, blue eyes staring into nothing. Dean narrowed his eyes at the angel, the look on his face making the hunter uneasy.

"Cas?" he asked warily. "Something wrong?"

The angel focused his piercing gaze on him, expression severe. "They have both vessels now," he said in a deceptively calm tone.

Dean blinked, processing the information. "Yeah, but Lucifer only cares about Sam, right?" he said, somewhat hopefully. "And he wouldn't tip off the rest of you flying monkeys."

"Dean, the timeline has been majorly disrupted. Ripples have spread through space and time on multiple levels of reality. Pieces are starting to break off. And you _really_ think no one's going to notice?"

"Whoa, okay!" said Dean with raised hands, surprised at the sudden heat in Cas' tone. "Geez. What's wrong with _you_?"

Cas' frown deepened. "I'm sorry if I'm concerned that the universe is fracturing," he said acerbically. "Next time I won't bother."

"Would everyone jus' shut up for two goddamn seconds?!" Bobby exploded without warning. Dean shut his mouth from the retort he was about to make. Beside him, Cas had the decency to look sheepish.

"John. Let go of the demon," bit out Bobby, gaze sending daggers at the younger hunter. John didn't look happy about it, but he did as he was told.

"Dean. Castiel. Quit yer squabblin'. And _you_ ," he turned his glare on Crowley, who almost looked frightened for a moment. "Keep yer mouth shut and wait until we're ready for you."

There was a silence, no one daring to speak lest they try Bobby's anger. An image of the hunter chasing John from his house at gunpoint flashed through Dean's head and was quickly dismissed.

"Now," said Bobby pointedly. "Dean's been taken. Lucifer has both our boys, plus Sam from the future. That's what he's got on us. What he _don't_ have is an angel, the king of the crossroads, a library full of lore books, and two stubborn-as-all-Hell Winchesters."

His gaze traveled between them, holding them prisoner in their severity. "We're gonna win this. It ain't gonna be easy, but it'll happen. Don't none of you be given up on me, understand? And it's no use blamin' each other, either. It ain't nobody's fault and their ain't nothin' nobody coulda done to stop it. Understand?"

Two people and one angel nodded meekly, and one demon found a sudden fascination in the dusty curtains.

"Good. Now, down to business. How're we gonna fix this?"

* * *

He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

Sam paced back and forth through the dank air of his prison, hands running through his hair as his thoughts raced. He needed to get out, get his younger self, _fix this, I have to fix this, it's all my fault, if I'd just gotten out of the way of that spell in time..._

He had no idea what was going on, and it was unbearable. For all he knew, Lucifer could be torturing Sammy. His younger self could be dead or dying or…

Or he could have said yes.

No, he couldn't think that. He wouldn't.

Impatience clawed at his chest like a caged beast, stretching up his throat and obstructing his breathing before collapsing back into butterflies in his stomach. Sam pressed his lips together and closed his eyes for a long, long moment, forcefully inhaling for a count of ten before releasing the spent air back into the musty atmosphere.

It wasn't just impatience, though. The monster inside him was a deep, insatiable craving.

 _Blood. Pumps through the veins of the demon outside. Pump pump, thump thump like drums. Pulsing and rushing, writhing and roiling and boiling and calling out to him, singing his name in choruses of increasing volume, and him wanting to answer but he can't but he wants to but he can't but he wants to but—_

Sam inhaled again sharply, the breath hard in his throat. When he exhaled this time it was accompanied by a quiet grunt of frustration.

His feet moved him towards the door before he knew what was happening, driven by this bestial need. Sam ground his teeth together and swallowed hard. Then, unable to stand the nothing any longer, he raised a shaking fist and pounded on the heavy slab of wood.

"Hey!" he yelled. He was met with no answer, so he tried again. "Hey!"

"What?!" the demon called back, sounding irritated.

"What's happening?!"

"Shut up!"

Sam let his eyes fall to the corner of the room, silently fuming. "Open the door!"

The demon laughed but gave no other answer.

 _Damnit._

One hand fiddled with the hem of his shirt in an anxious tic; he held it out in front of him and flexed it twice before balling it into a fist and pounding on the door once again.

"Shut up!" repeated the demon exasperatedly.

Reckless anger filled Sam, swirling with his impatience and rogue desire. "Make me!" he yelled, pounding harder. Each blow sent reverberations through the bones of his hand and he winced at the pain. There'd be a bruise there before long, but he kept going anyway.

There was a click, the sound of a latch sliding free. Sam stepped back, tensing as it swung open with the heavy scrape of wood against cement.

"Don't test me, your arrogant self-obsessed, hunter _scum_ —"

Sam grabbed hold of the door and slammed it closed on the demon's head. It crumpled, hands reaching for the frame to catch itself. A blow like that would put any normal person out of commission, but, of course, this was no human. This was a demon.

He kicked it, slamming it back into the wall. The plaster cracked with the force of the impact and it fell to its knees, opening a momentary window. Sam cast his eyes about for a weapon and his eyes landed on a shard of glass.

His blood pounded in his ears, louder and louder like an approaching thunderstorm. Even louder was the demon's pulse, rushing and roaring with the power of a waterfall, deafening him and obscuring all other thought but the calling of his desire.

He wrapped his hand around the glass, barely feeling the pain as it cut into his hand. With a cry he lunged at the demon, arm swiping through the air and catching on the demon's arm as it rolled away.

Sam followed it, allowing himself to fall so that he was sitting atop the demon, legs straddling either side. It bucked, trying to throw him off, but he put a hand on its shoulder and pressed downwards, pinning it to the ground.

The fingers of his other hand slackened, the glass clattering the damp floor below, stained with both the demon's blood and his own. Then, slowly, haltingly, he brought his mouth towards the seeping wound on the demon's arm.

He was in two minds; he was two identities, screaming opposing words into his head. He wanted to stop, _needed_ to stop, but at the same time he needed to continue.

His lips found the demon's skin, his tongue finding its way into the flesh and hungrily lapping up the sulfurous blood. A shiver traveled down his spine, equal parts disgust and ecstasy.

But he'd put his guard down, his grip on the demon relaxing as he reveled in the metallic taste of its blood. It sensed this and bucked again, this time throwing him off. He tried to get up and follow it, but it hurled out its hand and he was flung backwards with supernatural force.

The demon fled the room, escaping into the hallway and slamming the door behind it.

Sam raised shaking hands to his face. His throat clenched as his eyes caught the crimson liquid dripping from his skin and he thirstily brought them to his mouth, sucking and sucking until there was nothing left.

Then he lunged for the glass, licking that too, until there was nothing left on that, either.

His stomach turned over, his breathing heavy. "Oh, god," he breathed, nausea rising in his throat. He managed to stumble to the edge of the room before he began to retch.

He could only dry-heave, though. His stomach refused to relinquish its sinful contents.

Sam's knees buckled beneath him and he collapsed to the ground. He wrapped his arms around him, entire body trembling, and began to weep.

"Dean…" he whispered into the darkness. "I'm sorry."


	21. Notice

Hey guys.

Um, this isn't a chapter.

You may have noticed I haven't posted in a while. I think I owe you an explanation.

My interests are extremely fickle. This means I'll be very into a certain fandom for a while, and then my interests will move on to another fandom and I just won't care about the old fandom so much anymore. Often, my interests will circle back again, and that's why I haven't said anything yet, but it's been a while and they haven't so I'm officially putting this story on hiatus.

I know a lot of you are going to be upset, and I'm really sorry, but I can't put time and energy into a story I know longer love.

This story is not up for adoption. I don't feel comfortable putting my work in another person's hands, especially when there's some small chance of continuation in the future. I'm not going to delete it either. So this fic is going to stagnate for a while.

Thank you so much for your continued interest. I really appreciate it and I'm so sorry I couldn't deliver. However, even if I'm not still writing this, I am still writing. If you want, click on my profile and check out my current stories. I'm trying to stick to shorter fics so this doesn't happen again, so most of my recent stories have an ending already or have an ending coming.

Again, thank you for reading and thank you for your patience. I'm very sorry.

~thepensword (formerly Bianca Valdez)


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